


Bizarre Happenings (Temporary Work Title)

by DragonaireAbsolvare



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Dark Harry Potter, Gen, Harry is a Little Shit, Humor, Tyrant Harry, Voldemort Raises Harry Potter, Voldemort is his own warning, With a bit of Wickedness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-12-04
Packaged: 2020-02-09 22:32:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 23,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18647416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonaireAbsolvare/pseuds/DragonaireAbsolvare
Summary: Prompt: What if Harry Potter did not grow up in the abusive Dursley home? What if he grew up with his loving ‘family’, who decided to adopt him after deciding that the boy was better off in their hands?I wrote this because there aren't enough Parent!Voldemort stories along this line. Might end up cliche, might end up dark- idk, who knows? It's a Work In Progress.------------------------------------------------------------------I do not own the characters, I only own the changes in the plot. All characters belong to the illustrious and beloved J K Rowling, without whom, we would not have ever delved into the world of Harry Potter.





	1. Of the Dark Lord and His Minions

**Godric’s Hollow**

The Dark Lord smiled amiably at a trick-or-treating child who had just voiced out her approval at the former’s choice of clothes.

“Cool costume, Mister.” Another said, waving to his friend.

The Dark Lord stopped them. “I’m looking for the Potters.”

The boy grinned. “Fifth house down that turn. Bye!” The children ran off, and the Dark Lord smiled wickedly. So much for the Fidelius, when even a couple of children could tell where the place was. He glided to the Potter’s safe-house and knocked.

The door opened and a handsome, bespectacled man poked his head out. “Trick or treat?”

Voldemort grinned savagely. “Treat! _Reducto!”_

James Potter staggered back as the force of the Dark Lord’s spell hit his hastily put up shield charm. He heard his wife in the kitchen, with Harry. Panic seized him and he yelled, “Lily, take Harry and go! It’s _him!_ I’ll hold him off!”

There was a blur of red as the Muggleborn witch ran out of the kitchen, cradling their son in her arms. Their gazes locked for a moment, and many unspoken things were shared. Flashes of red and green light filled the room, and James Potter fell limply onto the ground.

The Dark Lord clicked his tongue in annoyance- he could deal with this later. For now, he had to find the boy.

As her husband fell, Lily held her scream of anguish in, and looked for possible exits. The Dark Lord was blocking the front door, and in her panic, Lily had lost her chance to escape through the back door. She cast Shield Charms and fled upstairs. Where was she supposed to go now?

A sense of doom settled in the heart of the red-headed witch as she placed her toddler in his crib.

“Shh. Harry, don’t cry. It’s going to be alright-”

The door burst open and Lord Voldemort strode in. He remembered little Severus pleading for this particular Mudblood and decided that since it had been such a good day, he would be merciful.

“Leave, child, and you need not die.” He stared in amusement as the witch bravely threw herself in front of her son. Bloody Gryffindors, so typical.

“Not Harry. Please, not Harry. Take me instead-”

“Stand aside, silly girl.” He said again, a tad bit annoyed now.

“Please, not Harry-”

“I will not say this again, stand aside!” The Dark Lord snapped and pointed his wand at her. _“Avada Kedavra.”_

The witch fell dead. He sighed. Severus would have to be placated later. And then, he thought why he should bother to placate Snape, or anyone, for that matter. He was the bloody Dark Lord! He scanned the child in the crib, who seemed to be staring curiously at him.

“Da?” The child peered happily through emerald green eyes. The Dark Lord peered back.

“So. You’re the little brat who’s going to destroy me? Well, I don’t think so. _Avada Kedavra!”_

There was a flash of green, but the spell rebounded, for some reason, and hit him. And then the Dark Lord found himself suspended in limbo. Interesting, he thought. It was lucky he had anchored himself firmly to the world of the living. He now had a choice: to accept death or return to the living world as a wraith. And obviously he chose the latter.

............................................

**Number Four, Privet Drive, Surrey**

When Petunia Dursley opened her front door to collect the milk bottles she gave an involuntary scream. Her eyes darted about, searching for spying neighbours before pulling the basket in the blink of an eye. Vernon Dursley called her from the dining room, where he was reading the newspaper.

“What’s wrong, Tuney?”

The woman had gone pale as paper. “It’s _them.”_ She mouthed the offending word, and Vernon blanched. “She’s dead. They both are, and someone’s left the boy here.”

Dursley seized the letter and skimmed through. “So this Dumble-person wants _us_ to take care of the freak boy?” The two peered into the basket and found a black-haired toddler with a flamed scar on his forehead.

“Apparently, my sister’s blood ‘protects’ this house, so we’ve got to keep the boy.”

Vernon grunted. “Fine. Put him in the cupboard.”

.............................................

With an absentee Dark Lord, the Ministry of Magic grew more self-assured, the Death Eaters were no longer unified, and the Dark side split. The proud servants of the Dark Lord began rioting and attacking civilians. Other Death Eaters with a sense of self-preservation began to flee the country, or plead their innocence.

The arrest of Sirius Black caused a sensation in the news, and encouraged the Aurors to begin a hunt for known Death Eaters. Lucius Malfoy was arrested and given a trial. Narcissa Malfoy, née Black, persuaded her sister’s (relatively sane) in-laws to send their insane progeny into hiding. With a good amount of galleons backing them up, the Malfoys escaped Azkaban. The last thing Narcissa heard about the Lestranges was that they had gone to Eastern Europe.

However, it was not completely so.

Rabastan Lestrange was tasked with combing through the remains of the Potter home in Godric’s Hollow, for any trace of the Dark Lord. He returned with a yew wand and tattered robes. The Dark Lord’s body had vanished.

Somewhere in Albania, Bellatrix was attacked by a venomous snake. Rodolphus traced the snake to a pit.

Lord Voldemort had barely enough time before Lestrange arrived, to dispose of the small rat that he was possessing and shift to a creature more worthy of hosting his wraith-like form. So he faced Rodolphus in the form of an owl.

“My faithful minion.” He began, although the owl could only hoot. Rodolphus blinked twice and carried the owl back to their hideout.

“Bella, Rabastan. I have found our Lord!” He declared, raising the owl reverently. The two stared, first at the owl, and then at each other sceptically, doubting the sanity of the older Lestrange.

The owl hooted and hissed, and their Dark Marks began to burn. It was then that the three faithful Death Eaters realised that it truly was their beloved master. They knelt, kowtowed and began worshipping the owl that was their Dark Lord.

................................................

**The Leaky Cauldron, London**

The Lestranges returned to England quickly after that. The next important thing they had to do was find a way for their master to return to his body. The three dark wizards and their wraith of a master lurked around sullenly in London.

“Why exactly are we here?” Bellatrix snarled at her brother-in-law, who seemed every bit ready to bicker back.

“Because we need a hide-out.” Rodolphus reminded her quietly. “And money.” They were hiding in the shadowy parts of the Leaky Cauldron, disillusioned, of course, and with a Muffliato cast around them.

“So what? Let’s just take a casual stroll into Diagon Alley, shall we? And a book a room in the Leaky Cauldron while we’re at it!” Bellatrix was raging. “What if we were found? Go to Azkaban? What happens to Master then?”

“Bella.” Rodolphus warned his wife. She quickly lowered her volume- they couldn’t take risks, even with all the protective measures they’d taken. “Granted, this was a stupid plan-“

Rabastan growled. “What else do you suggest? _Live with the Muggles?”_ He spat in disgust.

Rodolphus pursed his lips and thought. “Actually, that’s a brilliant suggestion.” He ignored the scowls and gasps of disbelief. “No, listen!” He smacked the heads of his wife and his brother. “No one would expect to look for us in the Muggle World. We can successfully hide from the Ministry, resurrect our Lord, and plot and plan all we want.”

Rabastan looked scandalised. “But- they’re _Muggles!”_ He spat the word. “Brother! Think of it- Us, consorting with vermin? That is, if we don’t die of their stench!” For once, Bellatrix agreed with her brother-in-law.

Rodolphus, however, was not to be shaken. “You’ll get over it.” He said coldly, before downing his Firewhiskey and getting up. “Now, to Gringotts.”

.............................................

Gringotts, being run by goblins, was a neutral party in the Wizarding War. They allowed no Ministry nor Dark Lord to control their functions. Once the trio reached the marble bank building, it was only too easy to withdraw a bag of galleons and get it exchanged for pounds.

Bellatrix took care of the owl Dark Lord while Rabastan was tasked with browsing through the Classifieds column of Muggle newspapers. He cursed loudly at his fate- being the one to offer the stupid suggestion, until Lord Voldemort, sick with the groans of self-pity, flew down from his perch and bit his faithful follower’s ear.

Rabastan yelped, but shut up, and Bellatrix shot him smug looks.

When Rodolphus returned, he cornered his younger brother. “So, did you find any places?” Rabastan circled three advertisements on the newspaper.

The three apparated to the flat for sale in Cokeworth. Taking one look at the dark and dingy surroundings, and the smell of trash in the air, they decided it would be their last option. The next place was a nice suburb down in Surrey, which they decided they’d keep in mind. The broker had been a portly and obnoxious Muggle who had all three of itching to Crucio him.

The man had shot them weird looks at their near-rags clothing and the owl perched on their shoulder, and had almost refused to let them into the house. Fortunately for him, a quick Compulsion had done the job.

The last place was a lone gable-house near the Great Hangleton graveyard. It seemed a good choice, and all three agreed. But then, Lord Voldemort began making a racket. The owner snapped and yelled at them to throw the ‘bloody owl’ out. He was subjected to a couple of rounds of the Cruciatus and then finished off with the Blood-Boiling Curse. Halfway through the inspection of the house, Bellatrix discovered that it was being used as a den of thieves after being uninhabited for too long. In their drunken revelry, one made lewd comments at Bellatrix, and was Crucio-ed to death. The others escaped, but it was not long before the house was crawling with the local law enforcement.

“Oh. It seems we’re going to be living in the suburbs after all.” Rabastan remarked as they apparated into Little Whinging. The house was purchased at a reasonable price and promptly refurnished in tasteful Pureblood ways.

The youngest Lestrange was sent to purchase Muggle clothing, while Bellatrix set up the wards and privacy charms around their new house. Lestrange set up a study and connected it to the Death Eaters’ Headquarters by private portals. The room was then furnished with Undetectable Extension Charms, and a large number of dark artefacts and tomes were transported from the Black and Lestrange Townhouses (which was under Ministry monitoring) for their daily use.

Rabastan returned from shopping, and the three Lestranges began redecorating the ugly Muggle things in green, silver and black. They frowned when they realised none of them knew a single house-keeping spell, and much to their chagrin, they had to do the cleaning the Muggle way.

“Can’t we get a house-elf?” Bellatrix asked.

Rodolphus thought for a moment. “It would be too obvious. The Ministry keeps track of all registered property of known Death Eaters, from what Yaxley told me. It would raise too many questions if the Lestrange Mansion suddenly began to gather dust. No, it is much safer to let the house-elves do their job there.”

Neither his wife nor his brother seemed satisfied. But Rodolphus was the family head, and as such, he got to call the shots.

“How do you like it, M’lord?” Rodolphus asked the owl eagerly.

The owl hooted appreciatively.

.................................................

And this was how three most-wanted Death Eaters and their wraith of a master began living in Number Five, Privet Drive, Surrey.

~***~

* * *

 


	2. Of Domesticity and General Housekeeping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The early days of Messrs Voldemort, Lestrange, Lestrange and Madam Lestrange at Number Five, Privet Drive, Surrey. PS, we get a glimpse of the Big Hero.

**Number Five, Privet Drive, Surrey**

Rabastan Lestrange growled as the doorbell rang. He was getting his precious hours of sleep before Rodolphus and the Dark Lord returned from the Base. He went to open the door.

“Yes, what is it?” The youngest Lestrange asked, before blinking. Three women stood at the doorstep, smiling.

“You’re the new neighbours, aren’t you?” A blonde woman with extravagant curls said. “I’m Margaret Willis from Number Eight. We just wanted to welcome you to the neighbourhood.”

Before Rabastan could say anything, however, another woman cut in. The Lestrange thought she looked rather horsy, with her abnormally long neck. “I’m Petunia Dursley. We live just next door.” The woman looked at him expectantly, and he found himself getting uncomfortable.

“Eh...” Some things were best left in the hands of women. Rabastan looked back into the house. “Bella! A little help?”

Bellatrix emerged from the study and glared at her brother-in-law. “What’s so important that you needed to disturb me from arranging Master’s room?”

Rabastan pleaded silently. “Neighbours”, he mouthed.

Bellatrix smirked cruelly. “Let’s see how you deal with it.” She folded her arms and leant on the staircase railing. Rabastan broke into cold sweat as he turned to the three women at the doorstep.

“Eh, come in. Make yourselves comfortable.” He said, leading them to the parlour. The women seemed to be analysing the room and making quiet remarks to themselves about the décor. He fumbled with his fingers for a bit before introducing themselves. “We’re the Lestranges. I’m Rabastan, and that,” he pointed at the woman near the staircase, “is my sister-in-law.”

There settled an uncomfortable silence. Rabastan was dying to curse the daylights out of the Muggle women, but he knew that if he blew their cover, his brother was going to flay him to within an inch of his life. He turned to Bellatrix, and sure enough, that sadistic woman was grinning, watching him squirm. “Should we offer them tea?” He mouthed again, and his sister-in-law shrugged. Rabastan quickly excused himself from the parlour and fled to the kitchens. He conjured a dozen porcelain plates before blasting each of them and swearing vehemently.

The noise was loud enough to reach the parlour, where Margaret Willis turned hesitantly to Bellatrix and asked. “Will he be alright?”

Bellatrix shrugged again. “He’s not used to making tea.”

The sounds coming from the kitchen were definitely not of someone making tea. But the three Muggles found it wise to shut up. After a few minutes, the racket from the kitchen ended, and the uncomfortable silence settled again.

Willis was the first one to break the silence. “So, Mrs Lestrange, what do you do?”

It was now Bellatrix’s turn to squirm. She caught Rabastan watching gleefully from the kitchen with the corner of her eyes. “Uh...” The woman knew she had to give a diplomatic answer that satisfied the accursed Muggles while not exposing them. But she also knew she was brutally honest; diplomacy was not her strong suit. Where was Narcissa when she needed her? “I’m a...” Pureblood women did not work. What was she supposed to say?

“She’s unemployed.” Rabastan drawled from the kitchen.

Bellatrix bit back her scathing comeback. It was true, wasn’t it? Being a staunch supporter of the Dark didn’t count as employment, but then, why did it sound so- so insulting- the way Rabastan put it?

Rabastan had returned from the kitchen. Bellatrix eyed the tea-tray in disbelief, there seemed to be tea in it. But- But- her stupid brother-in-law couldn’t have conjured it- And he most definitely did not know how to make tea! (Neither did she, for that matter, but _that_ was not the question.)

“And you, Mr Lestrange?” Willis asked with a sweet smile.

“I’m privately employed.” Rabastan replied, smirking cleverly at his sister-in-law. _‘In the service of the Dark Lord, who will rise and annihilate filthy Muggles like you.’_ He added sinisterly in his mind. “Here. Have some tea.”

Bellatrix fumed. “In that case, I’m also privately employed!” She snapped, and the three Muggle women looked at each other.

Rabastan set the tray down awkwardly. Silence reigned for a moment before Bellatrix began pouring them tea. She was dying to know what disgusting concoction her brother-in-law had come up with. To her visible surprise, it was indeed tea.

“Is something wrong?” Mrs Dursley asked her.

She shook her head in disbelief. “It’s- he’s managed to make proper tea.” Mrs Dursley stared for a moment, before muttering something to her friend. Margaret Willis was the first to rise.

“Well, Mrs Lestrange, Mr Lestrange, it was a pleasure to meet you. I hope you enjoy this neighbourhood.” She held out her hand, and Bellatrix shook it, reminding herself not to set Fiendfyre on the Muggle women. Rabastan walked them out and closed the door before shuddering in disgust. Bellatrix was wiping her hands furiously. “Purifying charms!” She cried out desperately, but neither Lestrange knew a single one.

When Rodolphus Lestrange returned with Lord Voldemort, he scrunched his nose up and sniffed. “Something smells revolting.” It was then that he noticed sulphur burning in the hearth and Bellatrix curled up on the couch, _reading._ He stared at his wife in concern. “Are you alright, Bella?” She looked up from her book weakly. “Not taken ill or anything, I hope?”

“Muggles.” She spat out that one word and went back to her book.

It was then that Rodolphus noticed her choice of reading material: _‘A Hundred Handy Tips to Housekeeping’_ , and blinked stupidly.

Amazing. This was the end of the world, was it not?

He later met Rabastan in the study, who narrated the traumatising incident to him. Rodolphus gravely walked to his brother, who held his breath. He put a gentle hand on Rabastan’s shoulder and patted awkwardly. “Dear brother, I admire your restraint.”

..........................................

Rabastan Lestrange was tasked with the daily meals, since his ‘tea’ had been edible. Bellatrix had only been sadistically gleeful when she made the suggestion to her husband. Rabastan, of course, was not pleased and neither did he know how to cook, but telling them that would mean exposing his secrets. So he did what Slytherins did best, he plotted. And aforementioned plotting took him to the supermarket, where he restacked his supply of teabags.

Really, they were such a life-saver!

A hyper-active assistant approached him with a smile. “Hi! Can I help you?”

Rabastan stared at her for a bit longer than necessary before blinking out of his trance. “Uh. Right. I’m looking for cooked food.” He mentally kicked himself; it had been a couple of years since the last Death Eater raid, and he missed the revelry. Being on the run hadn’t provided him many opportunities to satisfy himself.

The assistant took him to a section stocked with brightly coloured food packets. “Here you go. These are mostly microwavable; then there’s instant pasta, cup-ramen. And if you want frozen foods, just go down that aisle.” She winked and skipped away, leaving Rabastan very lost and feeling stupid. Since he hadn’t understood a word of what she said, he heaped the trolley with the instant food packets. Passing by the grocery section, Rabastan bought carrots, lettuce and eggs, and some bread from the bakery. If all failed, he could put together some rudimentary sandwiches.

The poor Death Eater didn’t really understand the Muggle currency system, so he had trouble counting out pounds and pennies for his purchase. The clerk offered payment in card in a bored tone, and of course, Rabastan was even more bewildered. Finally, after suffering through evil glares and not-so-hushed complaints from the other Muggles in the queue, Rabastan left the supermarket, rejoicing in his success.

Back home, Rabastan went through his purchase, and wondered what ‘microwavable’ meant. Frozen food were obviously meant to be unfrozen, so he took care of them with an _‘Incendio’._ Ramen and pasta were meant to be soaked in boiling water. Pasta became bland- apparently, it needed seasonings. But the cup-ramen was a success.

“This is actually good.” Rodolphus had remarked. Reluctantly, Bellatrix concurred.

So for the next two weeks, the Lestranges had cup-ramen and toasted meat for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake, don’t we have anything else?” Bellatrix growled. Rabastan shrugged. The Dark Lord hooted, nibbling on a half-burnt fish-finger.

When things reached the point where finding other recipes was the only way to keeping his head attached to his neck, the youngest Lestrange brother decided it was time to look up on what ‘microwavable’ meant.

........................................

Bellatrix Lestrange was tasked with taking care of the house. She wasn’t happy; she would have preferred to assist her Master in regaining his body. But Rodolphus was the head of the family and got to call the shots. And besides, neither she nor her brother-in-law had the patience to browse through tomes for obscure rituals. No, she was a woman of action.

And playing house with Muggle-scum was definitely not her idea of action.

The wives of Privet Drive had already invited her to their gossip-circle and neighbourhood associations. Bellatrix politely declined with gritted teeth, offering an excuse of ‘settling down first before jumping into other pursuits.’ But within days, the self-titled Dark Lord’s Second-In-Command found her mind wandering to the possibility of taking up the women’s offer. After all, there was only so many times that she could rearrange the Dark Lord’s room. Especially if said room contained only a perch and a small table.

Horrified, Bellatrix pushed that thought away.

Recently, she had bought a book on making beautiful homes- but it hadn’t been useful in the least. The book expected the reader to have a basic sense of housekeeping, and only offered useless advice on adding flair to what was already there. The Black library didn’t really have books for household charms either; they usually had a house-elf for everything.

She thought she should start somewhere, and laundry seemed a good place to do that. They seemed to be running out of clothes, and it seemed there was no choice but to wear the Death Eater robes (which, thankfully, seemed to have come with self-cleaning charms.)

“Where do you reckon the Muggles do their laundry?” Bellatrix asked Rabastan. To her surprise, that snooty little Death Eater seemed to be getting on splendidly.

Rabastan shrugged. “Find it out yourse-”

_“Crucio!”_

Rabastan ducked. “Yes, the Cruciatus amounts to asking nicely, doesn’t it, Bella? I should like to see you use it on the Muggles.”

Bellatrix glowered and stormed out through the kitchen backdoor.

It was then that she noticed a scrawny boy hanging clothes in the backyard of Number Four. She watched, intrigued. The boy noticed her after a while.

“Helping with the housework?” Bellatrix asked.

“Yes, Ma’am.” Came the quick reply. The Lestrange seized the chance to ask the boy where he did the laundry. The boy squinted at her. “Pardon?”

“Where.” Patiently, Bellatrix gritted out the question word by word. “Do. You. Do. The. Laundry?!?” This seemed to frighten the boy a bit.

“I- In the washing machine.” The boy answered. Bellatrix blinked a couple of times. A machine? This was bad news; none of them knew how to operate a Muggle machine. The boy seemed to have sensed her discomfort, so he helpfully offered: “You could use the laundry service in the town too, but I reckon it’s a bit pricey. At least, that’s what my Aunt says.”

Bellatrix shot the boy a wary look and wandered back into the house. Rabastan seemed to be lazing on the couch. This surged a wave of irritation though her.

“What do you think you’re doing? We’ve got plenty of work to do!” She snapped.

Rabastan sneered. “I finished my share. It’s not my fault if you lack the brainpower to manag-” He quickly put up a shield charm before the rain of curses hit him. Bellatrix seized the bundle of dirty clothes and glowered, before storming out. It took a few minutes for Rabastan to realise his dear sister-in-law had _left the house._

He raced after the walking trigger-bomb and stealthily followed her.

 _“Reducto!”_ Bellatrix screamed at a honking car. She was standing stubbornly in the middle of the road, and Rabastan set up shield-charm after shield-charm, protecting the Muggle-vehicles from being blown up. It was inevitable that the number of non-Dark spells that he was using would put him in the Dark Lord’s bad books for a while; but their cover had to be protected. Rodolphus would have his hide otherwise.

However, Bellatrix, who saw none of her spells taking effect, had become enraged to the point of using her favourite curses on the unsuspecting Muggles.

A random Muggle thrashed on the pavement.

 _“Imperio.”_ Rabastan cast discreetly, and to his surprise, it worked. Probably his sister-in-law was far too gone in her ire to notice she was under the Imperius. “Good girl. Now walk to wherever you were heading and get your work done.” He whispered, adding a bit of Compulsion for good measure. Bellatrix complied harmlessly.

Rabastan returned home, beaming. Whoever said the Unforgivables were bad?

~***~

* * *

 


	3. Unwanted Attention

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title suggests all, people. I just love Harry here, and I want to make sure the Dursleys are only as evil as they are in canon.

**Privet Drive, Surrey**

The residents of Privet Drive were intrigued by their new neighbours. Why in the world did they have an owl? And their lawn was scandalously unkempt, weeds springing out every five feet and Mrs Lestrange seemed so unsociable.

Gossip spread like wildfire, and Peggy Willis persuaded ‘Tuney’ Dursley to invite the Lestranges over for dinner.

“The impudence of those scum!” Bellatrix screamed, throwing hex after hex at a dummy Rabastan had conjured up for her.

“Bella.” Rodolphus warned.

“If you know spells to take care of the resulting mess, then by all means.” Rabastan offered. Bellatrix directed a round of Cruciatus curses at him. The latter ducked and danced out of the way. A vase exploded. Rodolphus turned to his wife sternly while his younger brother made faces from behind his back.

“Just because you don’t need to attend- you imbecile!” The witch-turned banshee launched herself physically at him, but was stopped by her husband.

“Really, Bella. Muggle scum they may be, and as much as you loathe to breathe the same air as them, you’ll have to attend if you want to live inconspicuously amongst them.” Lord Voldemort said sagely, silencing the ruckus with his powerfully (and wandlessly) magnified voice.

The three miscreants stopped to stare at the owl hooting vehemently.

“Look, Milord is saying something.” Rabastan said reverently. The owl continued to hoot.

“What are you saying, your Magnificence?” Rodolphus said desperately. “We do not understand!”

Hoot, hoot and hoot. Finally, Lord Voldemort was at the end of his patience, and His Magnificence (who was known for his beneficence and patience, or lack thereof) spread his magnificent wings and magnificently flew away.

“Look what you did! You chased him away!” Bellatrix sobbed.

Rodolphus breathed deeply. These two would be the death of him (literally) some day in the near future. He overpowered the other two Lestranges.

 _“Petrificus Totalus. Incarcerous._ Now you _will_ listen to me. We are going to have dinner with the Dursleys-” Rabastan threw Bellatrix a victorious look, “and no one is exempted.” Bellatrix snorted at Rabastan’s horrified look. “The Dursleys might be expecting two guests, but they invited the Lestranges, and the Lestranges are always three.” He narrowed his eyes and glowered over them, daring them to challenge him.

......................................

The following Sunday saw the three Britain’s-Most-Wanted outfitted in decent Muggle attire (Bellatrix still insisted on keeping her corset, so she was wearing something out of the 1890’s) and presentably cleaned up. They assembled in the Dursley’s doorstep, and wondered where the knocker was.

“Er, I think we’re supposed to knock on the door.” Rabastan suggested.

Bellatrix wrinkled her nose. “How barbaric. You’d think they’d have advanced, being left to breed and multiply like a Doxy infestation.”

Rabastan snorted. “I didn’t know you had Doxy infestations in the The Most Ancient and Noble House of Black.” Bellatrix was about to retort when Rodolphus smacked both their heads together.

The oldest rapped smartly on the door. It opened, revealing the horsy face of Petunia Dursley, wearing her best salmon-pink cocktail dress. “Oh, how wonderful to have you, Mr Lestrange, Mrs Lestrange...” She simpered, before noticing the unexpected Lestrange brother.

“You’ll have to excuse us, Mrs Dursley. We’re always together.” Rodolphus said, while Mrs Dursley stepped back to let them in.

The bony Muggle woman led them into the lounge where Vernon Dursley and their son sat. Petunia pulled the boy to her side and smoothed his blond hair down. “This is my darling Dudley, and that is my husband, Vernon.”

The Lestranges thought the man resembled a walrus (minus the teeth. His teeth were positively tiny) and the boy looked more round than humanoid.

“Bet that thing couldn’t make it out of _her_ without tearing something.” Rabastan whispered into Bellatrix’s ear, indicating Dudley. His sister-in-law snorted, and Rodolphus gave them both a well-aimed kick as they walked to the table.

“Looks delicious, Mrs Dursley.” Rodolphus remarked amiably when the lot had sat down. The remark wasn’t wasted, as the table was laden with mouth-watering food. A roast pheasant crowned the table, surrounded by gravy-rich stews and spicy curries. The first course was peppery mushroom soup, followed by the roast pheasant (crispy on the outside, tender and juicy inside) and followed up by strawberries and whipped cream.

For the Lestranges, who had been living on canned soup and ramen for the past month-

-there was no need for more words.

Rabastan, for his part, ignored most of the conversation and focused on eating as much as he could. Bellatrix (had been instructed to recall her fine Pureblood upbringing) had to suffer through Mrs Dursley’s pestering questions. She wished nothing more than to dig into the delicious dinner to her heart’s content.

“You have a fantastic cook, Mrs Dursley.” Rabastan commented, before going back to his gluttony. Bellatrix nodded furiously. All her hatred for Muggles had dissipated (for a few moments, of course) in the face of food.

“Did you make this all yourself?” She asked. Petunia blushed.

“No, we have a cook.” The blonde woman uncomfortably looked at her son, who was dribbling stew onto his shirt. “Duddy darling, don’t do that.” She wiped his chin with a napkin, and Bellatrix was left to wonder if the son was a ball of blubber or a flobberworm.

“Be sure to offer him our regards then.” Rodolphus smiled, biting a forkful of pheasant casually. As the eldest, he had been raised to maintain a neutral face no matter the turbulent emotions within.

Oddly enough, at the mention of the cook, the Dursleys seemed to fidget and become uncomfortable.

“Right then.” Mr Dursley grunted. “You aren’t usually around, are you, Mr Lestrange?”

Rodolphus smiled amiably again. “No. I have to be away for work.”

“And what would that be?” Dursley was relentless. His job as a businessman often included sizing up his competitors, and he had honed his instincts well.

“I’m in politics.” Rodolphus said smartly. “We’re trying to change the present government. They’re not good enough to rule us.” Bellatrix and Rabastan stared in horror. And indignation. And self-loathing, because the oldest Lestrange had been so clever and accurate.

Vernon looked intrigued then. “Never heard of you.”

“Of course, I’m just a minor player. Surely you think we need someone to pull strings in the background to make everything happen? Our coalition leader is Europe’s finest since the Second World War.” Bellatrix could not believe her ears. Here was her husband sitting with Muggles, singing praises of the Dark Lord, the one who was destined to exterminate them all. “We will conquer the Ministry, change everything and restore our world to its former glory.”

Vernon Dursley looked completely mooned.

Now that’s a model follower there, thought Lord Voldemort, who was fighting with the runner-beans to gain footing sound enough to spy on the dinner. His talons seemed to cut through the creeper tendrils whenever he was close to hearing any juicy gossip or information, making him lose balance and miss out on the best bits.

“Good man, Roddy, keep going!” The Lord exclaimed exaltedly. “Make that Muggle cannon-fodder fall for our schemes and willingly offer his life to our cause!”

Hoot! Hoot! Hoot! Petunia Dursley turned to the window to see what the ruckus was-

And screamed.

“An owl! What are you doing, get off my runner-beans! You ghastly creature-” She took a stick and began to thrash it about, hoping to hit the owl. Lord Voldemort was enraged.

 _‘Avada Kedavra!’_ was what he meant to say, but it came out as a ‘Hoot!’

And since hoots weren’t exactly dark magic, nothing happened. His Magnificence received a rather painful blow to his midsection and flew away indignantly. Satisfied, Petunia returned to the table with a quick apology, and dinner resumed like nothing had happened.

Curiosity killed the cat, or so they say.

But Lord Voldemort was not a cat and certainly not an owl. That was only his temporary accommodations. So he settled for a firmer tree branch and tried to-

“It’s not nice to snoop, you know?” A child’s voice said.

Startled, Lord Voldemort fell off the tree, before he remembered that he was a bird. He looked around frantically, realising the kid in the backyard was not speaking to him, rather, he was scolding a tiny green snake.

“I wasn’t snooping. My home is under the kitchen floorboards.” The snake protested.

The boy furrowed his brow, although much of it was not visible under his scraggly mess of jet-black hair. “You can’t go in there. Aunt Petunia would kill you if she sees you.”

“Then you take me there.” The snake replied. “Surely she wouldn’t kill a- whatever you are.”

The boy shook his head. “Nope, she wouldn’t, but she’ll whack me with Uncle Vernon’s old Smeltings stick.”

“Maybe you _deserve_ to be caned, nasty little Muggle.” Lord Voldemort sneered, although unbeknownst to him, it was in Parseltongue. And he’d forgotten the boy spoke it rather well. The boy went rather stiff and turned cautiously, expecting either his Uncle or Aunt. Then his attention landed on the hissing owl, high in its perch, and relaxed.

“I’ve never talked to an owl before. He remarked, and stretched an arm out. “You’re kind of cute.”

Lord Voldemort felt quite insulted. He was already fuming and wheezing from the blow to his side, and the kid’s words enraged him more. So he hopped off his perch to release his frustrations on the boy, because he was petty like that. (If he was petty enough to attack a toddler in his crib, what chance did an annoying five-year old stand? Besides, the little ragamuffin gave him unpleasant memories of the orphanage.)

“Ouch! Ow, stop- biting- me!” The boy cried as the Dark Lord attacked him from all directions. He nipped the boy’s nose and ears, scratched his face and arms, and sank his claws onto his neck. The Cruciatus would have been preferable, or some bone-crushing curse, if only he had it in his present arsenal... The Dark Lord sighed nostalgically.

The boy pushed him away with all his might, and suddenly Lord Voldemort found himself set ablaze.

The fire was scalding hot, and Voldemort looked around for another body to possess.

None.

Even the tiny garden-snake had escaped.

Was this how the great Dark Lord going to end? As an owl, roast by some brat’s accidental magic?

The fire disappeared as it came. The owl fell, and a teary green-eyed boy rushed to its side, fingers frantically hovering over the injuries.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” The boy scrunched up his face in concentration, and miraculously enough, Lord Voldemort The Owl began to heal. The owl hooded in thanks, because it had no desire to die. Inside, however, Lord Voldemort was wondering whether the boy had a really good control of his magic, or if he was a phoenix reincarnated, or some other ridiculously absurd thing.

“You little brat!” Bellatrix’s screech became louder as she ran out of the house, brandishing her wand. The rest of the Lestranges were running after her. “You will pay! Crucio!” Voldemort winced- but nothing happened.

Out of sheer instinct, the boy had dodged the spell. Bellatrix jumped in front of him, seething lividly and looking as insane as she was. Rodolphus caught up and snatched the wand away from his wife before any neighbours saw it.

“The boy is mine.” Lord Voldemort hooted, and flew on top of her shoulder, nudging her away from the boy.

A bewildered Bellatrix asked, “But Master, he set you on fire!”

The Dursleys were panting and huffing as they came out of the house. Their eyes zeroed in on the little rascal who had ruined their dinner and their reputation as a perfect (normal) family, just because he was mentally inept to understand a simple instruction like ‘Stay put!’

“You!” Uncle Vernon began in a low voice, one that promised much pain if Harry were to disobey. “Come here.” Rodolphus glanced at the exchange and raised an eyebrow quizzically.

Petunia grimaced. “My nephew. He’s a bit off in the head you see, so you’ll have to excuse him. We usually keep him in the house, but he must have escaped…” She laughed nervously. But what was done was done; their dirty little secret had been exposed. The dinner couldn’t go on, because Bellatrix had stormed back to the house with the owl, and Rabastan had already eaten to his heart’s content. Rodolphus offered a couple of hasty apologies to the Dursleys and returned.

It took a few days, but the owl moulted its feathers and grew new ones. All was well.

...........................................

“You!” Uncle Vernon seethed, “I’m going to make you wish you were never born, boy.” The man shoved him into the cupboard and locked it, and the Dursleys didn’t feed him for days. Harry’s jaw hurt where Uncle Vernon had slapped him, but fortunately, he hadn’t done anything more.

So Harry lay miserably in his cot, counting days only by the chime of the clock in the living room, counting spiders running across the underside of the staircase, wondering how long it would be this time, before he saw daylight again.

He hoped the owl was okay. Sure, it tried to hurt him, but it was only an animal.

Speaking of animals, the garden-snake slithered out of a loose floorboard. “Hi.” It said.

Harry sat up eagerly. “Hello!”

~***~

* * *

 


	4. Lawnmowers and Other Household Appliances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some quality Harry-Lestrange Bonding Time.  
> It's crack, dear readers! This is pure domestic crack, no big plot points here. I've also hidden an (out of context) quote from the original Harry Potter series, can anybody spot it?
> 
> PS: I was writing another story, and just realised there was a major plot hole with the Deathly Hallows. Voldemort thinks the Elder Wand can only be passed down with murder, but Dumbledore didn't kill Grindelwald to get it. And Voldemort so conveniently ignored this and killed Snape.

**Number Four, Privet Drive, Surrey**

It was almost a month after the Dinner Incident that Harry was let out of his cupboard. Harry hurried to take a shower, then he was promptly handed a list of chores he was to complete before noon.

The car was washed first thing in the morning, while the Dursleys had breakfast, then Uncle Vernon left for work after giving his wife a peck on the cheek. Harry went into the kitchen and was handed a slice of bread before being shoved out to water the garden and mow the lawn.

An owl was watching all this from the garden of Number Five, Privet Drive. It hooted when the oldest Lestrange came out to collect his Master. The owl pointed its beak in the direction of Harry watering the lawn and gazed meaningfully at their own yard. After a moment, Rodolphus got the idea.

“Someone needs to prune the garden.” Rodolphus announced. Bellatrix, fortunately, was cleaning the dishes (she figured _‘Scourgify’_ would work on plates and cutlery if it worked on cauldrons) while Rabastan was sleeping on the couch. He didn’t seem to do much other than boiling water for the instant ramen. _Levicorpus,_ he thought. Rabastan was suddenly hanging upside down by his ankle. Rodolphus smiled politely. “Brother-dear, get your bottoms off the couch, and start cleaning up the lawn.”

“Alright! Alright! Put me down!” Cried a sleepy Rabastan.

Rodolphus turned to leave. “I assume you’ll find the required equipment in the garden shed.” The door slammed shut.

“Bastard!” Rabastan cursed, and then looked hopefully at his sister-in-law. “Any chance you’ll let me down?”

Bellatrix grinned. “You owe me.” Rabastan crashed down onto the tea-table, and cursed again.

.......................................

This was how Rabastan found himself leaning over the fence, staring at the Muggle boy who seemed to know everything. The scrawny five-year-old seemed to be operating a machine twice his size with practised ease.

“Psst!” Rabastan called again. The boy turned his head. “C’mere.” The boy looked around apprehensively before approaching the man.

“Yes?”

“How do you operate that... thing?” Rabastan pointed at the lawnmower. The boy looked confused for a moment, then shrugged.

“Pull the cord, I guess?” He replied.

Rabastan honestly had no idea what that meant, so he told the boy to come over and show him. Now, any sensible child would have remembered what their parents told them about talking to strangers, but neighbours didn’t count as strangers, did they? And even if they did, Harry was sure most strangers were better than the Dursleys. So he looked around twice, before jumping over the fence and heading to the Lestranges’ shed. The insides were quite the same, and he spotted an old lawnmower in the corner.

“Right, there it is.” Harry tugged at its cord, which made the machine wheeze and grunt, with nothing more. “It’s rusted a bit.” Harry folded his sleeves and pulled on the cord again, to no avail. Finally, he gave it a kick, and the machine whirred to life. “Here you go, Mr Lestrange.” Rabastan was about to grasp the handle when Harry remembered. “You’ve got to be careful, the blades are rather tricky.” He wisely didn’t add an anecdote on how he’d nearly lost a couple of fingers to it and had magically healed them.

Rabastan then pushed the lawnmower into the garden and was wondrous and happy when the grass began to be trimmed to a decent length.

“Amazing! Just like magic!” The man exclaimed, while Harry began to edge away slowly. Aunt Petunia might have been a nasty slave-driver and a liar, but she was right about lunatics. But the childlike happiness on the Death Eater’s face made Harry stay and show him the basics to gardening.

The yard was full of weeds, and the two of them pulled weeds, pruned the privets, trimmed the hedges and watered the plants. They worked in easy companionship, and when it was done, Rabastan thumped Harry on the shoulder amiably and walked him back to his house. Harry wondered if this was how it felt to have a father. Uncle Vernon and Dudley had such moments over fishing trips, and though Harry didn’t know much about father-son bonding, he guessed it must have felt something like that.

“Thanks a lot.” Rabastan winked. “You aren’t half as bad as you thought, kid.”

Harry smiled hesitantly and went back to mowing the Dursley’s lawn.

Neighbours were nice.

......................................

When Bellatrix was angry, she went crazy, but it was predictable. She would either destroy something or torture someone to death. It was always one of the two, and it happened instantly. Rodolphus, on the other hand, left his rage to simmer, and took it out at completely unsuspecting times, and in bizarre ways that never followed a pattern. His anger built up and left the other Lestranges walking on eggshells.

Bellatrix had seen Rabastan having a nice neighbourly bonding with the Muggle brat next door, and tattled it to her husband, hoping to get the former in trouble. Little did she know, Rodolphus was already fuming at the last series of unsuccessful resurrection attempts and her words only served to fuel the flames.

As it were, the two younger Lestranges were walking on eggshells, again.

“It was _your_ idea, moron.” Rabastan hissed. They were in the kitchen, the former trying to make eggs and bacon and Bellatrix watching. Rodolphus was in the Dark Lord’s chambers, in a private audience with His Magnificence. (Neither knew what the purpose of it was, because Rodolphus clearly couldn’t understand a word of his Lordship’s hooting.)

“Can’t you make something else?” Bellatrix asked, ignoring the first question. In reply, Rabastan threw a few coloured packets at her. The witch picked up one and read. “Ollie’s Microwavable Chicken Dinner, best served at 140˚F.”

“Make what you will of it.” Rabastan said.

Bellatrix read the passage multiple times, then read it upside down, and then with a Quibbler special edition spectroscope. “Bloody Muggles made a new code!”

Strangely enough, Rabastan was more intrigued by the spectroscope. “You read the Quibbler?” He raised an eyebrow, suddenly looking a lot more like his brother. Bellatrix shrugged, so he added, “Not judging, it’s more... interesting than the rubbish they print in Witch Weekly. Know thy enemy, and all.”

There was a moment of quiet truce. Finally, the witch spoke. “So, what’s ‘microwavable’?” Rabastan pursed his lips in thoughtful silence, and headed out through the backyard. “Where are you going?”

He grinned. “I know someone who can fix it for us.”

......................................

Harry was washing the dishes when a pebble hit the window. He didn’t hear it the first time, but the next set of pebbles froze in mid-air when the boy saw them speeding towards the glass.

“Are you trying to get me killed?” Harry asked when he saw Rabastan leaning over the fence. He folded his arms when the man smiled guiltily, and let himself be led into the Lestranges’ kitchen. The trash was overflowing with noodle cups and crisp packets. Harry snorted before he could help it, and then hastily covered his mouth. Mrs Lestrange was lurking in the kitchen, so he crept behind Rabastan. When the man stopped, Harry stared at him expectantly.

“Well, don’t just stand there, _do something!”_ Bellatrix exclaimed, pointing at the food-packets. The boy picked up one and examined it closely. There was nothing special about it, just your average microwave dinner. Harry gave them a confused look. What had gotten their knickers in a twist?

It then dawned on Harry that the Lestranges didn’t know what the heck a microwave was. Both of them were wearing weird medieval... women-clothes Harry supposed he could call a dress. They had _lit_ the electric fireplace, and the hearth was a blasted mess of soot and charred wood. And they were using _candles,_ when there were plenty of light-fixtures in the room.

Time-travellers...

The notion dangerously crept into his mind. Harry brushed it off, because there was no such thing as magic, Uncle Vernon would have his head if he blurted it out. And time-travellers from the future made more sense than from the past. He was swimming in dangerous waters; he had to tread carefully. If things came to the worst, they could toss him onto the streets, give him away to an orphanage or even get him committed to an asylum.

He had to get out of here.

Harry shrugged. “I don’t know, sir.” He said quietly and waited to get his leave. Rabastan looked completely let down as he led Harry back to the Dursleys’ residence.

Later that night, Harry was cooking dinner when he looked at the Lestranges through the window. Both Rabastan and his sister-in-law seemed to be bickering in the kitchen. Harry held his breath as they pulled the stove’s plug and began poking inside the circuit-box with a stick. Mrs Lestrange cackled loudly, yelling _“Specialis Revelio!”_ It blew with great noise and light, and the electricity went off.

Well, that’s something.

“Boy!” A shout emerged from the living room and Harry winced and braced himself for the next round of verbal onslaught.

..............................................

When Harry was let out of the cupboard after a few days of his ‘punishment’, he decided, Time-travellers or not, he really was going to have to educate the new neighbours before Uncle Vernon blew his head. The electricity supply had blown for the ninth time in the past week. So the young boy slipped away from his Aunt’s surveillance and rang the Lestranges’ doorbell.

Inside, a certain Lestrange was napping on the sofa and another one was nursing a bottle of Firewhiskey after another disastrous bout with the switchboard. In rage after failing to discover its secrets, Bellatrix had set it on fire.

Back to the present; the doorbell rang. Bellatrix was startled, dropping her bottle of Firewhiskey, the napping Death Eater woke with a start, looking around frantically and the two began shooting hexes and curses at all directions.

“For the love of Merlin, go kill yourself!” Bellatrix had located the source of the sound, and shot a _‘Bombarda’_ at it. The wall collapsed.

Outside, Harry stared at the door, wondering what in the world was happening inside. The doorbell refused to ring anymore, so Harry braced himself and knocked on the door, before running for cover behind the tree near the gate. Fortunately, the blasting stopped.

Rabastan was the first to notice the knock. “It was just the doorbell, moron!” He yelled at his sister-in-law and went to answer the door.

“Hello?” Harry asked meekly from behind his shelter.

Rabastan stuffed his wand in his pocket and smiled genially. “Hi, kiddo. What brings you here?”

Here, Harry hesitated. Years of living with the Dursleys had taught him it wasn’t quite favourable for him to bring the ineptitude of adults to light. “Erm... Do you still- still want help with the cooking?”

These were Death Eaters; insane ones that had never been allowed within a yard’s radius of children, even those of the Dark Lord’s Most Faithful. (Bellatrix often complained about Narcissa or the Greengrasses never inviting them to dinner or even Yule.) And neither had they ever been taught that children should never be allowed near completely intoxicated people.

So Rabastan happily opened the door and ushered Harry in, ignoring the destruction and the witch swearing nastily enough to put the rowdiest hags to shame. The woman really took after her aunt. Harry stared pointedly at the collapsed living room wall. Rabastan flushed and scratched his head. “Eh, we thought we were under attack.” He led the boy to the kitchen, adding as an afterthought. “Bella, dear, the carpet’s soaked in Firewhiskey, would you mind?”

Right, thought Harry. Only think about the microwave. Only the microwave. He looked around and spotted no oven. “Let’s focus on the stove first, shall we?” He compromised with a smile.

Anything was better than the gravel called breakfast-cereal that Rabastan had his family munching on, so he nodded.

Harry first taught him how to differentiate between the plug and the switch-board, how the plug went _inside_ the switch-board, and how to switch the damned thing on. The stove blared to life, and Rabastan marvelled at it. Then Harry had the two Death Eaters chop up vegetables and meat while he made lunch.

“Wow, this is like Potions!” Rabastan exclaimed happily. It was one of his better subjects at Hogwarts.

“Pay attention!” Harry snapped irritably. The Death Eaters were slow learners and he did not have the leisure to take things slowly. “I am not teaching you the same thing twice, so if you want to eat, you will learn to make it.” His two ‘students’ groaned and began listening (even though Bellatrix was dead drunk and Rabastan was in want of a nap. They wanted to eat, after all.)

It seemed the little Muggle was a downright tyrant!

................................................

“Right.” Harry remarked, on the fifth day of cooking class. “I have to take you to the supermarket.”

Bellatrix folded her arms and stared defiantly. “Why?”

“To get a microwave oven. Trust me, it makes things a lot easier.” Then he paused, and added. _“You_ shouldn’t come. I’ll take Mr Lestrange along.” Rabastan snorted. Harry gave him a sharp look. “It’s not like I trust you either. Mrs Lestrange is more prone to blowing things up, that’s why.”

Harry led Rabastan to a part of the Supermarket that he had never been to. He let the boy browse through different Muggle machines. “Don’t touch anything.” Harry warned, before going ahead to look at a new range of dishwashers.

Soon enough, the Death Eater grew bored with just staring at contraptions that he had no idea about. He tried to amuse himself with watching young women shopping, and began wandering towards another section of electric appliances.

Rabastan decided that Muggle outfits were much better than Wizarding ones, especially the gauzy miniskirt a certain young woman was wearing. She was looking at different types of hair-irons, plugging them at the socket to try them out. Rabastan smiled widely when the woman bent to pick another one, but he wished the building didn’t have automatic climate control.

Absolutely. The store needed some air.

The Lestrange covertly flicked his wand and muttered a charm to create a gust of wind.

The hair-iron exploded, and the socket blew. The woman stood rigid, shaking ever so slightly as she got electrocuted.

This particular reason was why the Ministry of Magic had an office for the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts. Magic and Muggle technology weren’t meant to go together; magic interfered with whatever was running the Muggle machines and usually ended in disaster. As it was, smoke began slowly rising out of the socket, followed by dim flickers of orange; so Rabastan quickly waved his wand and exclaimed. _“Aguamenti!”_

Hogwarts did not teach its students that electric fires weren’t supposed to be put out by water, so poor Rabastan had no way of knowing things were going to get worse. Much worse.

Every single power-socket in the supermarket blew up, exploding a couple of lights, barbecue grills, televisions and miscellaneous other devices that were on display. The place was blanketed in darkness.

A few yards away, an unlikely five-year-old froze.

This was not good, not good at all.

Harry ran through the darkness, something in his panicking bowels telling him where Rabastan was, until he found the man looking lost and bewildered. “We have to leave. _Now!”_ Harry seethed, dragging the Death Eater down the aisles.

It wasn’t until they were three blocks away from the supermarket that the duo stopped to breathe. Harry threw Rabastan a dirty look. “No more shopping for you. Let’s go home.”

~***~

 

* * *

 


	5. Enter the Circus (Let the Mayhem Begin!)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter Barty Crouch, for how could we not include our favourite junior Death Eater? I've de-aged him a bit from canon, because I picture him as quite young- just out of Hogwarts when he got landed in Azkaban, poor thing. Ps- Bonding with Voldie, how lovely.

**Number Five, Privet Drive, Surrey**

* * *

_‘Lumos.’_

Rodolphus Lestrange was used to seeing all sorts of strange things inside his house, to the point that to him, ‘strange’ meant normal and vice versa. But never had he seen a sight so bizarre as his wife and his brother sitting meekly by the counter, being furiously scolded by a five-year-old about the value of food and money.

The boy looked up, and Rodolphus hastily hid his wand in his robes.

“The… um, _stick_ is glowing.” Harry pointed out. Rodolphus looked down and saw that he had forgotten to extinguish the Wand-Lighting charm. He cursed. On his shoulder, Lord Voldemort gave a disapproving hoot. It was not good manners to swear in front of children, after all.

Finally, all the Lestranges were settled around the table, along with Harry and the Dark Lord.

“So, you’re the Dursleys’ cook?” Rodolphus asked, finding the mushroom soup very familiar. Harry nodded hesitantly. “Aren’t you a bit too big to be a House-Elf?”

Eh? Harry was bewildered.

Bellatrix smacked her husband’s hand genially. “Nonsense, darling. He’s a Muggle! Muggles can’t have House-Elves, so they use their kids instead.”

Rodolphus wondered what had happened in the week he had been away. The kid seemed right at home amongst the Death Eaters and all their... dubious surroundings. He was sure Muggles didn’t enslave their children, and he was more than sure that the ‘Don’t Approach Strangers’ rule applied to Muggle children as well.

And the Lestranges were the worst sort of strangers a kid could end up with.

‘Didn’t they tell you to be wary of us?’ Was what Rodolphus meant to ask, but seeing the way Harry was wolfing down the lunch, what came out was “Didn’t they feed you at home?”

Harry’s spoon clattered onto the table. They had found out. The neighbours had found out, and he was going to be in so much trouble when he got back. Aunt Petunia was going to kill him. He quickly got up from his chair, gulping down the rest of his soup and running to the kitchen with his bowl.

Rabastan called after him, remarking that they’d had only one course of lunch. The boy responded by a quick ‘I need to go, I’m late!’, before running out through the back door.

Viewing the proceedings from his perch, the Dark Lord found the boy’s behaviour very strange. And familiar and intriguing, so he vowed to spy on the Dursleys for a while.

...................................................

“Where were you?” Aunt Petunia screeched. “You ungrateful little freak! We feed you, clothe you, and give you a place to put your sorry hide, and what do we get in return? Dishes not done, laundry still in the wash, and Dudley’s pudding _gone! GONE!”_

Harry stared. He most definitely hadn’t taken the mini-whale’s pudding, and if anyone had, it must have been the spoilt brat himself.

“Mummy, he _ate_ it all.” Dudley pointed a fat finger accusingly at Harry. There were traces of chocolate on his hands (having still not learnt to properly use a knife and fork) which his mother chose to ignore in favour of whacking Harry with the wooden spoon a couple of times. Then she gave him a list of chores to complete before evening if he wanted to have dinner.

Dudley guffawed when Aunt Petunia left Harry to make another pudding for her precious ‘growing boy’.

Harry shook his head in resignation and began to mop the floor. The little garden-snake slithered out of the kitchen floorboards and curled around Harry’s ankle. “Stop doing that. You’re getting my home wet.” It complained. Harry grimaced.

“Sorry.”

High up on the runner-beans, Lord Voldemort analysed the situation. The kid, obviously of magical blood, was getting thrown around by his Muggle-scum relatives for his accidental magic, and while it was enraging in its own right, the boy hadn’t so much as raised a word of protest.

His Magnificence did not do kindness. He only helped those who were worthy of it.

‘Prove it. Prove yourself to me.’

In the kitchen, Aunt Petunia tripped on a deceptively smooth floor and broke one of her lower incisors.

................................................

**Bisky Bakes,** **Tottenham Court Road**

Rabastan Lestrange was terribly bored. He had been bored in the house, despite having quite a large load of chores to do. They had received a flyer that morning about a travelling theatre in London, come all the way from Wales.

Well, drama was better than the tellyshion in that he didn’t have to figure the buttons and knobs out.

Pity he had to prune the bushes. But then, he was a Slytherin, and proud of the fact that the Old Sorting Hat hadn’t needed a moment’s consideration to put him there. And what Slytherins did best was plot, plan and put all that cunning into shirking their duties.

“Psst, kiddo!” Rabastan had called his new friend over, earlier that morning.

“You really want to get me killed, don’t you?” The boy asked, disapproval marring his young features.

Rabastan grinned guiltily. He seemed to be grinning a lot these days. He brandished a crisp Muggle-note (he had absolutely no idea how Muggles found a rectangular piece of paper worthy of being called currency) and replied. “I’ll give you this Pound-thingy if you take care of the yard for me.”

The boy’s eyes went wide, like he’d never seen Muggle money before.

Odd, that.

However, the bribe had worked, and Rabastan was free to leisurely stroll down the streets of London, looking for that drama troupe.

Right now, he was comfortably settled in a nook of Bisky Bakes, the local patisserie, munching on raspberry muffins and Assamese Tea, a quick breakfast before the morning show. They were playing Shakespeare’s Macbeth and Rabastan was hoping to get the pretty waitress hooked onto his arm when he went to the show.

He looked her way, to find her arguing with a young man over the price of croquettes. The Death Eater realised that solving the dispute by discreetly siding with the waitress would put him in her favour and he eagerly made his way over.

“C’mon, laddie. These people have been working since six, let’s give them what they deserve.” Rabastan said sagely. The youth looked at him and snorted.

“That’s rich, coming from _you,_ ‘Stan.”

Eh... what?

Who did that Muggle-filth think he was?

The youth pulled him along to a corner of the shop. “I thought you all had left Britain.” He said, pulling his hood down. Rabastan was greeted by familiar straw-blond hair.

“Barty Crouch Junior?” Merlin, he looked awful. His eyes and cheeks were sunken, and his skin was pale and gaunt, stretched over throbbing veins. Even the Lestranges hadn’t looked this ragged after their stint in Albania. The youth shushed him impatiently.

“Listen. I’ve got work to do, but we’ll meet up here at noon?” Before Rabastan could answer, his colleague had run off. It took a while for him to realise Crouch had stolen his muffins.

Cursing, Rabastan headed to the theatre.

........................................

**Privet Drive, Surrey**

“I swear, if that ruddy owl comes into our yard again, I’m going to shoot it!” Uncle Vernon snarled, brushing feathers off his jacket. Petunia ran to his aid, all the while glaring at the ‘cause’ of all their troubles.

“I didn’t do anything! Please-” Harry protested.

Uncle Vernon grabbed him by the collar. “You think we’re fools, boy? Think we don’t see you talking to it? You _set_ the owl on us.” He hissed, spit flying in all directions. “Is this how you repay our kindness?” He shook Harry like a bag of bones, the latter’s head spinning.

High on the chimney, Lord Voldemort watched as Mr Dursley suddenly dislocated his wrist. He dropped the boy and clutched his injury before hobbling off into the house, followed by his wife. The Dark Lord hooted his approval and flew down to the boy.

“Thank you.” Harry said gratefully. The owl had scratched and bit Dudley when the boy was busy tackling and punching his scrawny cousin.

The owl hooted. “Neat trick.” Voldemort said. “Was it accidental or intentional?”

Harry ducked his head guiltily. “If you promise you won’t tell anyone...” The owl stared blankly at him, as if asking, ‘How many people do you know who can talk to animals?’ Harry blushed. “I- err, sort-of wanted his arm to go off flying. Obviously, that didn’t happen.”

The owl perched affectionately on his arm. “Humans have something called skin that prevents bones from flying off.” He replied sarcastically. Voldemort didn’t like it much, but the owl he was possessing had taken a shine to Harry, and was dragging a reluctant Dark Lord along in its nuzzlings.

Not so far away, Bellatrix was staring horrified at the sight of her beloved Master snuggling into the side of some Muggle brat. She felt her brain liquefy and her heart explode.

“Milord!” The witch whimpered. “What if the Muggles taint you, Master? Don’t go...”

Voldemort ignored her. Or rather, he decided to hurt her and play with the Mudblood, because he was sadistic like that. “Come on, I’ll tell you about magic.” He said genially, beckoning the boy to the Lestranges’ kitchen.

Harry’s eyes went as wide as saucers. “Don’t say the M word! They’ll roast you alive!” The owl rolled its eyes and began telling Harry about the Wizarding World.

“So, once upon a time, there lived a very, very bad man. He was great and powerful and so very evil…” Harry listened raptly, because no one had ever told him a story before. Well, he assumed his Mum and Dad might have, but they were long gone. “This very bad man was called Lord Voldemort, the leader of the Dark side and destined to purge the world of filth like your Aunt and Uncle. Now, in every story, there’s a villain, and here he came by the name of Albus Dumbledore. Dumbledore was the worst of all Muggle-loving fools, and his great weapon was _Love.”_ Here, Voldemort practically spat the word and paused, and Harry laughed.

“You’re joking, right?” Upon seeing the grave expression on the owl, he asked. “Does he Love his enemies to submission?”

The owl beamed. “Right you are, child. The old goat _pretended_ Love was his weapon, and he force-fed this philosophy to the unfortunates who followed him. But his real weapon was his intelligence and immense arsenal of spells-” Harry snorted, and tried to cover it up. “Arsenal, not arse! Go look it up in the dictionary!” The Dark Lord screeched in exasperation.

It was quite late when the Dark Lord decided that was enough for a day. Harry didn’t agree.

“But what happened to Lord Voldemort? Did he get the Sword or did Dumbledore foil his plans?”

Voldemort laughed in his Cruel High-Pitch Laugh™. “That’s for you to find out.”

“Come on! Don’t leave me with a cliff-hanger.” Harry tried his best pleading expression, but the Dark Lord wouldn’t budge.

........................................

**Tottenham Court Road**

Rabastan apparated to the spot behind the patisserie where he had agreed to meet Crouch Jr. The young man was there, early as usual, but bouncing with enthusiasm.

“I saw you!” He blurted out. “Did you see me?”

Rabastan stared. Had Crouch gone mad? “Er, no. Sorry.”

“But- I even waved.”

“What are you talking about?” He snapped. The loss of his breakfast had him very cross with the youth.

“The morning show, Macbeth! I was in it- _‘Double, double toil and trouble’,_ the witches, remember?” Oh. Rabastan hadn’t figured Crouch to be the acting type. Before he could respond, the youth had apparated him to a secluded spot in a thicket somewhere. “Right, what’s up with you? We all thought you’d left for the Continent.”

Rabastan shrugged. “We went to find our Lord, but... circumstances... brought us back. You?” There were rumours amongst the Death Eaters Barty Crouch Jr. was a bit off in the head, like Bella. He was starting to believe them.

Crouch puffed up his chest proudly. “I was on the run too, searching for our Lord. But the Ministry caught up with me before I could get out of the country.” He winced. “So many filthy Muggles around, and people _rejoicing._ Well, I went to Diagon Alley and put an end to their revelry.” The youth began eagerly counting on his fingers. “I blasted nine shops to smithereens, I killed forty people including twelve Aurors and five Order members. Then I called a few of the Outer Circle together and raided three Order safehouses. We caught the Prewetts, the McKinnons and the Longbottoms. We nearly got Mad-Eye Moody, but the Order and Ministry surrounded us and took us in.” Crouch had a dreamy expression on. “Just before they snapped my wand, I cast the Dark Mark over the Ministry- because our Lord will return and destroy them all!” He exclaimed in a half-intoxicated state.

Rabastan clamped his palm over Crouch’s mouth before someone overheard them and called the Aurors. Finally, the youth calmed down.

“What about you?” He asked. “What have you been up to these days?”

Rabastsn stared dumbly. “Eh... Laundry.”

.......................................

It turned out that Crouch Jr. had been sentenced to a lifetime in Azkaban for crimes against Wizardkind, and after being imprisoned for three years, his dying mother had pleaded to his father to smuggle him out. Crouch Sr. had done so, putting his son under the Imperius Curse and taking him under a discreet form of house-arrest. But being an Inner Circle elite Death Eater, he was skilled enough to throw off the Imperius, transfigure a dead mouse into his corpse, and escape his father’s clutches. He took to the streets, emaciated and nearly dead when the master of the travelling drama troupe found him. They nursed him back to health, and he joined them as an errand boy, working his way up to a secondary actor.

Lord Voldemort was pleased. The youth was an ideal minion, and had to be rewarded for his loyalty. The owl flew from its perch and settled on Crouch’s shoulder. The man patted the owl (the Lestranges had agreed they wouldn’t disclose the identity of the Dark Lord, and the owl had been temporarily named ‘Percival’) and fed it a strip of bacon.

The Lestranges had changed a lot in the four years he had been away. There was an atmosphere that bordered on domestic, despite the dark artefacts and tomes lying around. And Merlin forbid, there was a Muggle kid coming every single day, teaching them mundane things like turning on electric lamps and fans, and using a radio.

Crouch popped in to visit for the rest of the week, till the travelling theatre troupe left. He promised to come by every now and then, though.

...........................................

Peggy Willis (the nosy neighbour) had found the two dishevelled Death Eaters emerging from the thicket, which happened to be near the Little Whinging playground, and many unsavoury rumours emerged about Rabastan Lestrange. That is to say, he had a very hard time chasing skirts, because the residents of Privet Drive were far too conservative, and preferred to shun him instead. Bellatrix didn’t stop teasing him, and his only solace was the neighbouring kid (whose name he still hadn’t learnt.)

~***~

* * *

 


	6. Resurrection and Redemption

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of Barty's special gift, and the trouble His Magnificence has with it. Harry makes a new friend.
> 
> Warning for non-violent deaths of dubious consent.

**Number Five, Privet Drive, Surrey**

It had been almost six months since the Lestranges’ started living in their new house. That morning, Crouch Jr. had come by to drop off a parcel. The two Lestranges were, naturally, very curious, given that the parcel was labelled ‘Open when the time is ripe’.

­So one day, when the disapproving Roddy-dear was away, the two imbeciles ripped open the package. It contained a miserable and angry snake, who had been shut inside the magically-reinforced canvas package for about a month now, and had digested her meal weeks ago. She lunged at the Death Eaters, set on ripping their innards to shreds and swallowing them whole.

Bellatrix cursed and threw a Killing Curse at the snake. It retaliated by leaping out of the package, exposing her glorious twelve feet length of powerful muscle and venomous scales.

It took a moment for the two to realise the snake was some magical breed that could withstand simple spells, and that it would take some ancient and powerful artefact to kill her. So they did what they could, they scrammed.

Once they were safe on an island in the Mediterranean Sea, the two breathed in relief, before realising they’d just set a magical snake on the inhabitants of Privet Drive.

Meanwhile, the serpent was wrecking everything in her path, furious at being denied her meal; not caring whether it was her Master’s Most Faithful that she had been trying to gobble up. She smashed the back door with her tail and slithered out, squeezing through the gap between the fence and the ground and heading to the young human-lings on the grass.

For his part, Dudley did not realise there was a snake behind him, as he curled around Harry and punched his face.

“A bit small, but well- beggars can’t be choosers... At least it’s ham.” Nagini hissed, flicking her tongue in and out of her mouth in delight.

Under the assault, Harry snorted. Someone had just called Dudley a pig.

“See something funny?” The other boy asked, landing a hard blow on Harry’s cheek. But he heard the rustle and turned, screamed and fainted. Harry stared at the humungous snake, bewildered.

“You’re not as fleshy.” She hissed in distaste, curling her tail around Dudley’s limp form. “But I’d rather eat my prey when they’re squealing, so you’ll be first.”

For the fear of his life, Harry darted back blindly, and hit the fence. “Please-” He begged. “I’ll get you meat from the freezer- don’t kill me…” The tiny garden-snake (which had been hiding behind a watering kettle) darted out to protect him. It hissed threateningly, putting on a brave front for the human-ling. Harry had saved it several times from Aunt Petunia and Pest-Control, and it wanted to do the same.

It was a rather pathetic sight, the (not-so-venomous, one-and-a-half feet long) green garden-snake spitting at an enormous, fully-starved magical python who was trying to eat a skinny half-starved kid.

Nagini shot forward to kill the impertinent little snake, for though she was loathe to kill one of her own, she needed to feed.

“NO!!!”

This was an even more pathetic sight- the skinny boy had put his arms protectively in front of the garden-snake.

“What are you doing?” The smaller snake hissed at the boy.

“Protecting you.” The boy replied. “She’ll kill you.”

 _“You’re_ the one she’s after, and _I’m_ trying to protect _you, stupid!”_ The garden-snake hissed.

Nagini suddenly reared up, intrigued. So the boy was a speaker? Someone of Master’s blood, perhaps? Bemused, she watched the garden-snake try to wriggle out of the boy’s grasp. “You said there’s meat inside?” Nagini asked, and the boy’s face lit up. He nodded, eager to live.

“I’ll go get it right away!” He got up, tucked the tiny snake inside his ill-fitting shirt and ran into the kitchen. There were several chunks of meat in the freezer, and Harry, not knowing if the snake preferred pork, beef or veal, took the lot.

It seemed to be the right decision, as Nagini gleefully swallowed all of it (after murmuring something about live prey tasting better.) Harry watched with repulsed fascination as Nagini opened her jaws very, very wide and swallowed the meat, her serpentine form crushing and digesting the food in grotesque pulsing movements.

Once Nagini was done, she curled around lazily on the grass while Harry and his garden-snake crouched at a safe distance.

“You’re... very big.” Harry settled for an awkward ice-breaker when the silence became unbearable.

Nagini smirked. “Big enough to swallow this lump whole,” she replied, jabbing her tail at the unconscious Dudley. Harry gulped. “Master let me eat misbehaving followers, but it’s been so long...” The python added dreamily.

“You won’t eat him, will you?” He asked nervously. “Aunt Petunia will kill me if you do.”

Nagini stared at him curiously. “Then I should eat you instead. Either way, you die.”

“No!” Harry yelped and jumped backwards. “You said it yourself- I’m all skin and bones.” The python snorted nastily and began advancing on him, and he found himself sandwiched against the wall. “Listen-” Harry rasped out, his throat suddenly dry, but voice ringing in conviction. “We don’t need to make an issue out of this.” His voice lowered till it was barely audible. “Dudley is really... you know, _meaty._ And he’s quite horrible too, so we’ll be doing the world a favour, ridding it of him. No one has to know- I mean, _I’m_ not going to tell anyone, and _obviously_ you don’t seem the type to gloat.”

Nagini reared up and fixed her unblinking gaze on him for a long time, then looked pointedly at the garden-snake who was peeking out of Harry’s jacket.

Harry followed her gaze. “You won’t tell either, right?”

The little snake was bewildered. “But I-”

“This is a matter of life and death!” Harry snapped irritably. It shook its head in terror and shot back into the jacket. The boy turned back to the python. “There. That’s done with. So, deal?” He held out his hands warily.

Nagini let out a loud hiss of amusement. “I eat the little piggy, you leave unscathed.” She wound tightly around Dudley, whom she’d been dragging around by her tail. Harry let out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding, and sank to his knees.

A good ten minutes had passed, and Nagini still hadn’t eaten Dudley.

“I love watching them struggle.” Nagini explained when Harry asked, waiting for the boy to wake. “Why haven’t you run away yet?”

Harry shrugged. He didn’t know. For a while longer, the two made idle chat, and Harry learned that she was Nagini, the beloved familiar of Lord Voldemort.

“Bollocks!” Harry cried. “You couldn’t be.”

“Try me.” The python replied.

Harry stared, gaping like a fish. “But- but that would make you a legendary figure! A _real_ legendary figure!” He paused to get a bearing. “Is _he_ really that amazing? Can he do magic from a stick?”

If Nagini wasn’t a snake, and if she wasn’t so old and venerable, she would have rolled her eyes and pulled a face. “Hatchling, _anyone_ can do magic with a stick. My Master can fly without wings, he can make humans grovel at his feet and lick his feet-coverings.” She replied, savouring the delight on the boy’s face. “You know a lot of things for a Mudblood. Who’s been teaching you all this?”

Harry furrowed his brows. “Milord, the Lestranges’ owl. He’s rather nice, and if snakes and owls weren’t natural enemies, I’d introduce you to him.”

The python hissed lazily. “Don’t hesitate, hatchling. I’d _love_ to meet him.” Harry missed the hungry tone, because Dudley Dursley had begun to stir. “Wakey wakey, little piggy.”

.................................................

It was all over in a matter of minutes, and Harry realised his tormentor of six years was no more. Relief flooded him, and he could not bring himself to feel sorry or guilty. He laid his head against the swell of Nagini’s body, where his cousin probably was, and fell asleep.

An ungodly scream woke him up. Nagini was still stretched out contentedly on the grass, and Harry shook her till she was awake, snapping angrily and coherent.

“You need to hide.” Harry said matter-of-factly and pushed the python into the Lestranges’ backyard. “What are you waiting for? Scoot! They’re going to kill you.” Right on cue, the kitchen door blasted open, and Vernon Dursley jumped out with a shotgun.

“Where’s the blasted snake, boy?” He snarled, face going ruddy.

Harry stammered. “Th-There’s no snake, Uncle Vernon.”

Aunt Petunia peeked out from behind her husband. “He was talking to it.” The woman screeched, glaring at Harry. “We told you we won’t have any more of your freakishness in the house!”

Uncle Vernon pointed the shotgun at Harry and pushed him onto the fence. “Where is it?” His face was a nasty shade of purple, spit flying and veins throbbing dangerously.

“I d-don’t know!” Harry pleaded, utterly terrified of the gun pressing into his neck. Fortunately, Aunt Petunia came to his aid, reasoning that they didn’t want the neighbours to see and cause a scene. So Uncle Vernon kicked Harry into the kitchen and began to threaten him.

This was when Aunt Petunia noticed Dudley was missing.

“Vernon, have you seen Duddikins?” She asked, anxiety bleeding into her tone.

The beefy man slammed Harry onto the counter and turned to his wife. “I’m sure he’s just playing outside.”

At this moment, Harry couldn’t help but snort. But the Dursleys weren’t stupid, no matter how ignorant and prejudiced they were. It was too late when Harry realised his mistake. Vernon turned to him with danger in his eyes, making the boy’s hair stand up and alarm bells ringing in his head.

“What.” Uncle Vernon began in a low voice. “Did. You. Do?” But it was of no use, Harry was frozen in fear. It was then that realisation dawned on Petunia.

The bulge in the snake’s stomach...

Dudley missing, Harry perfectly fine.

Petunia let out an ear-splitting scream and sank to the floor in anguish. Vernon turned to look at his wife, and Harry broke out of his trance and made a run for it.

He ran without looking back, out of Privet Drive, out of Little Whinging, out of Surrey, the world flashing past him as he disappeared with a small pop.

...............................................

**Riddle House, Little Hangleton**

‘Haunted manor-house’ might have been a better description of Riddle House. It had been well-kept by its previous inhabitants, and after nearly fifty years of gathering dust, it was the centre of ghost-stories and superstitions of the town, from the scandalous elopement of the squire’s son with a tramp’s daughter to the mysterious mass-murder of Thomas Riddle Senior, his family and his servants. As the years passed, the townsfolk began talking of ghosts and all sorts of ungodly things wandering around the grounds, howls and screams ringing in the middle of the night, and the occasional silhouette of a demon in flapping black robes. It didn’t help that the courageous few who had ventured into the manor were never heard from again.

‘Don’t approach Riddle House,’ the townsfolk warned visitors. Viewing and photographing it from outside the manor grounds was lucrative enough for the local guides, and the town chose not to break the tentative truce it held with the haunted manor.

Things had been inactive for five years, and the wards were failing, Lord Voldemort noted, stepping into his paternal home. Rodolphus was waiting at a pub in Little Hangleton, his Master having not trusted him enough to bring him into his darkest secrets.

The Dark Lord flew into the master bedroom and began scratching on the tapestry on the wall. His claws were inefficient in pushing buttons, and it took a lot of trial-and-error to find the right knob to open the trapdoor. Once he was through, the Dark Owl flew out with a dull ring in his claws, a family heirloom of-sorts. The reason why he could not entrust this task to more efficient human hands was that the ring was charmed to maim and kill any other soul who touched it (a minor detail), and of course, it also held his precious horcrux.

With great trouble, the Dark Lord wiggled his claws into the ring to secure it, and flew to his servant in Little Hangleton. With the first part of their mission complete, the duo returned to Privet Drive-

Only to find an enormous magical snake lounging on their dinner table.

Lord Voldemort could not believe his eyes. Alright, it might have been black-and-white vision and more convex than appreciable, but that beautiful Javanese Jabberwock could not have been anyone else.

“Nagini!” He breathed tenderly.

The snake shot up eagerly. “More food!” The few lumps of meat and one human child was long gone, and Nagini was dying to eat more. She used to eat three humans at once in her Master’s glory days, and a few years of hunger had not helped.

The gigantic python leapt off the table at the wizard and owl.

Lord Voldemort hooted and screeched and flew up to escape his familiar’s jaws. It was near impossible, and he realised it wasn’t exactly pleasant to be at the wrong end of an overpowered magical snake.

“It’s me, my lovely!” He cried.

“Perish, vermin.” Nagini replied, and snapped at the owl. Thankfully, she seemed to have recognised Rodolphus, having fed enough to distinguish between friend and foe. The wizard heaved a sigh and fled. If his Master came to harm, his life was forfeit. But protecting his Master meant attacking the snake. If the snake came to harm, his life was forfeit just the same.

A few hours later, Rodolphus returned to find Nagini prowling the grounds, and Lord Voldemort safe on the chandelier. He pressed his Mark, calling his wife and his brother to the house. The two apparated with a crack, saw the snake, and disapparated.

Incensed, Rodolphus called them again, quickly casting Anti-apparation wards around the place.

Bellatrix and Rabastan saw the Dark Lord and began kowtowing, edging back warily when the snake came too close. However, Nagini wasn’t interested in the two, she was hissing threats at the owl. The humans were content to watch, given that Parseltongue out of an owl just sounded weird and funny, as opposed to the fear it instilled when spoken by a snake-faced bastard.

“Enough!” The Dark Lord screamed. “I’m your Master!”

Nagini huffed sarcastically. “Hefty claim, considering that the next-door boy is a better Slytherin than you.”

Being told that a Mudblood was a better Slytherin than Slytherin’s Heir himself made the Dark Lord see sense. How far he had fallen. One was not enough, he would need more.

The owl flew out of the window, leaving the three Lestranges at the mercy of Nagini.

Lord Voldemort broke into the nearby house, snatched a piece of paper from a toddler, and flew away, far, far into the heart of Wiltshire.

..................................................

**Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire**

Lucius Malfoy was busy signing some important business documents when an owl crashed through the windows and shot past him, dropping a ball of paper into his lap. The blond wizard scowled and cursed as he vanished the spilt ink before it could dry into the parchment. The bloody bird had escaped into the library adjacent to his study, and Lucius decided he would curse the fowl into oblivion after he read through whatever it had brought him.

To his immense displeasure, it was an infantile scratch of crayons, coated with snot, spit and baby-food.

 _Muggle_ baby-food.

No self-respecting wizard would feed his children that abomination.

Lucius sprang onto his feet, set on using a couple of dark curses on the owl. The bird was making a racket in his study, and before he could locate it, the damnable thing had burst through another window, and was flying out of the wards.

It had toppled a bookshelf, and half the tomes in another section lay scattered on the floor. Swinging his cane in rage, Lucius summoned an elf to clean up and returned to his documents.

..................................................

**Number Five, Privet Drive, Surrey**

“Cook it up.” The Dark Lord snarled, scratching impatiently on the mahogany desk in his room. The three Lestranges stared at the Potions Manual the Dark Lord had stolen. The page opened was an obscure restorative draught, which used plenty of unicorn blood, crushed baby Mandrakes and plenty of other highly illegal ingredients.

Granted, half of them could be obtained at Knockturn Alley, but- Winterdew buds in the middle of summer _and_ half a siren? The whole ninety-five pounds of fresh, siren tail-flesh?

Rodolphus was the first to recover. “I’ll go find a siren.” He disapperated with a pop, probably to enjoy a short and well-deserved rest on a cruise ship in the Mediterranean Sea before he began trafficking sirens.

Rabastan escaped under the pretext of searching for rest of the ingredients. His travels took him out of Knockturn’s hag-run apothecaries to a witch-doctor somewhere in Congo who sold him most of the insects and beast-skins required. As the Muggle kid next-door had taught him, buying from wholesalers was much more cost-efficient than from the retailers.

~***~


	7. Redemption and Revelation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lord Voldemort is not a very nice person.

**Number Five, Privet Drive**

“Where’s the boy?” Rabastan asked his sister-in-law. The two were preparing an obscure restorative draught from the texts the Dark Lord had provided. Said owl was scrutinising their every action, often hopping down from his perch to prevent his imbecilic followers from adding the wrong ingredient or stirring one time too many. Of course, the python prowling about the grounds had him hopping back onto his perch almost immediately.

“Haven’t seen him all week.” Bellatrix replied. “Nasty little tyrant. It’s great to have a break.”

Rabastan looked sorrowful. “But don’t you miss him a little? Just a teeny-tiny bit?”

Bellatrix looked overly doubtful. “Perhaps Nagini ate him.”

“I most certainly did not!” Nagini snarled from under the table, although nobody could understand. (The owl didn’t count, food was still food, even if it could understand Parseltongue.)

Lord Voldemort, however, was interested. The strange Mudblood boy hadn’t come over the whole week, and there hadn’t been much to hear from the Dursleys either. Something was off. The impertinent boy wouldn’t have missed the episode of the Dark Lord being chased around by his familiar for anything in the world, and maybe, maybe- the cruel, evil Dark Lord did miss the brat just a little.

So did Bella, although she hated to admit it. He had been most helpful in acclimatising the Lestranges to their new neighbourhood, without poking into their quirks and secrets. His bossy aura was eerily identical to the Dark Lord, an aura that made her want to bow and serve and bootlick.

Urgh, bootlick a Muggle? Her brain must be turning to sludge.

Either way, the three agreed silently to wait till Rodolphus returned with the siren and completed the potion.

......................................

The Dark Lord was not known for his patience and serenity.

So three days later, he flew through the open kitchen-door of the Dursley residence, only to find the couple in mourning, and no children present.

Hmm... Hypothetically speaking, the accidental magic of a pre-Hogwarts wizard could explode in life-threatening situations and lash out at his attackers. And considering the vicious nature of the blond meatball, the Mudblood might really have killed his cousin. So, following that theory, the Mudblood ought to have run away before collapsing somewhere due to magical exhaustion.

This was plausible in every aspect except one. Why wasn’t the place crawling with Ministry officials yet?

Unless- Unless the Muggle cousin hadn’t died by magical means. The death coincided with the appearance of a very convenient, not-so-magical way of disposing of victims’ bodies. His favourite method, to be precise.

Patience, he told himself irritably. He could not approach, let alone question Nagini before he escaped that damnable owl body.

Two weeks later, Rodolphus returned with a live siren inside a sound-proof glass tank, looking infinitely refreshed, much to the chagrin of the rest of the dark wizards. The Dark Lord swore to put him under the Cruciatus for daring to take a vacation while he was stuck as a helpless wraith.

The siren screamed, begged, pleaded and seduced them in hopes of mercy, but Nagini, who was immune to the creature’s magic when she was feeling exceptionally hungry, gobbled up the sea-creature’s head. She was on her way to swallowing the upper torso when Rabastan broke out of his trance, seized a meat-cleaver and chopped off the lower half.

Satisfied, Nagini ate her portion and the rest of the siren went into the potion, Bellatrix stirring furiously and the Dark Lord finding it safe to dismount from his perch.

Lord Voldemort flew back into his room, gripped an old book and a locket in his claws, and flew back to the kitchen. The potion was a cloudy red, and he waited for the seventh clockwise stir to turn it translucent before plopping the book and the locket into the cauldron. The potion began to bubble merrily, going from red to purple to blue, until Lord Voldemort shot into the cauldron with the ring horcrux in his claws.

“Milord!!!” Bellatrix screamed, aghast. They hadn’t come all this way to lose their Lord to a forgotten potion.

Said potion turned into the clearest cerulean blue, and belched out the owl, who now sported a fresh burn on its right leg. It hooted furiously, and returned to its perch. A gruelling half-hour later, a pale figure began to rise from the cauldron.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t the snake-faced bastard that everyone was used to seeing, and His Magnificence Lord Voldemort found three wands pointing at him.

“It’s me, you bloody idiots!” He snarled, conjuring robes for himself in a remarkable display of wandless magic. He then conjured up a glamour of a red-eyed, hairless, nose-less face, and hissed in annoyance.

Alright, so he hadn’t expected to come out of the fire looking like his infernal Muggle father.

On the bright side, he was good-looking again, and he could definitely go with that. The only problem was that he would be recognised by certain old witches and wizards who had attended school with him. Never mind.

“My wand, Rabastan.” He stretched out his hand grandly, and the youngest Lestrange handed him the yew wand before bowing low and retreating.

Now, onto the few things that had been plaguing him for the last few days.

“How was the weather in Sicily?” He asked.

Rodolphus hesitated. “Very good, Milord.”

 _“Crucio.”_ The Dark Lord turned to Nagini. “Did you eat the Mudblood and his cousin?”

Nagini reared up. “I ate the piggy.”

The Dark Lord furrowed his brows and pushed into the mind of his familiar. On seeing that the boy had talked the snake out of eating him, he felt a flash of pride, but he quickly dismissed it. Once he was done, he stalked out of the house angrily, heading to the rather quiet Dursley residence.

...........................................

**Number Four, Privet Drive, Surrey**

Marge Dursley was comforting her grieving brother and his wife when the door blasted open. A man strode briskly into their living room, holding the three at wandpoint.

“Who are you and what do you want?” Marge snapped, standing up. Petunia froze at the sight of the inhuman face, and desperately tried to pull her sister-in-law down.

The creature-like man sneered, looking straight into the latter’s eyes. Once he saw everything that had transpired, he pointed his wand at Vernon Dursley. “Where is the boy, Mr Dursley?” He asked frigidly.

Vernon turned his usual unpleasant shade of purple. “He killed my son. _The freak killed my son!”_

Lord Voldemort went still, anger clouding his face. “The freak.” He repeated calmly, staring intently at the beefy man. “The _boy_ did nothing. It was the snake that ate your son.”

 _“Your kind,”_ spat Vernon, “ruined my family.” He jumped to his feet and seized the shotgun from the mantelpiece, pointing it at the stranger. Marge quickly stepped to her brother, attempting to calm him down. The stranger was unarmed, and if he got injured, Vernon would be held responsible, so she tried to talk sense into him.

Marge’s dog, Ripper, chose this moment to run into the house and attack the Dark Lord.

 _“Avada Kedavra.”_ In a flash of green light, the dog fell dead. “Where is the boy, Dursley?” Lord Voldemort drawled lazily, as if he had not just killed something. When the man said nothing, his eyes narrowed. _“Crucio._ Where is he, Dursley?”

Petunia watched in horror as her husband began to scream and writhe, unspeakable agony etched onto his face. She threw herself at the stranger’s feet, begging him to stop. When he was convinced neither the couple nor the other woman knew where their nephew was, Lord Voldemort released the Muggle man from the curse.

Petunia heaved a sigh of relief.

But it was not to be. With two more flashes of green light, the stranger had disposed of Vernon and Marge. Petunia stared up in terror, her heart beating in her ears. The stranger’s piercing crimson gaze began combing through her mind.

“You’ve been... helpful. Do not forget that Lord Voldemort is merciful to those who yield. _Imperio.”_

With a flick of his wand, the hearth exploded, charring the living room and flinging Petunia against the wall. The stranger apparated out, as Muggles began flocking the burning Dursley home.

.................................................

**Tower Hamlets, London**

Harry ducked into an alleyway to hide behind the rubbish bins. He was being chased by a group of teenagers after having snatched one of their wallets. The boy shrunk further into the shade, pocketing the few notes and coins it contained and tossing the wallet away. Once he was sure the teenagers weren’t around, Harry snuck out of the alley and headed to the nearest store to buy food.

Stealing from people was easier than stealing from shops. Crowds were the best, he could just spring into the masses and slip his thin hands into their pockets.

Within a week of his new life as a penniless vagrant, rough-sleeping on the shop sides and stealing wallets, Harry realised the value of setting aside capital. He would steal a few pounds every day, and set aside enough to buy tickets for the London Tube. Pickpocketing was easier on the train, especially during the morning and evening crowds, and he could get enough to buy a loaf of bread, or a pack of cheap biscuits.

He was used to surviving on very little, so Harry _loved_ the new lifestyle for the freedom it brought him.

Strange things happened around Harry Potter. Always. Whether it was at the Dursley home or the streets, inexplicable things happened. But Harry was smart enough to turn these to his advantage. For example, he was sure Uncle Vernon would have issued ‘Wanted’ posters for the ‘murderer’ of his son, and he had to become unrecognisable. So Harry learned to blend into the background, and his hair, which had hitherto refused to be cut or tamed, grew overnight to his shoulders. Granted, it was still a frumpy mess, but it hid him well.

And the way his fingers became magically nimble and so very soft whenever he wanted to rob pockets- he was quite sure normal children didn’t possess suck skills.

Harry worked hard to cultivate this latter ability, along with his newfound teleportation ability. Perhaps, once he was proficient enough, he could quit thieving and become a street magician?

On the station, he saw two wealthy-looking men, and decided that they were easy targets. The man in the pinstripe suit was portly and pompous-looking, and he seemed unaware enough. The other man seemed a bit more difficult to rob, seeing that he had on a flamboyant form-fitting suit. He spoke in extravagant gestures and seemed to be vainer than all the women of Privet Drive combined. Harry mentally dubbed him a peacock.

“Leave this to me, Minister. I’ll take care of it in a jiffy!”

The portly man looked confused and uncomfortable. “Now, now, Gilderoy, I’m sure the Aurors are perfectly capable...”

“Nonsense, Minister! I’d be delighted to help. Now that’s over with, why don’t we head over to Vertick Alley for some lunch? I know a little nook that has the best oyster dishes...”

The Minister was the first to notice Harry. He stared, and the other man followed his gaze.

Harry put on his meekest expression, held out his scrawny hands and asked piteously, “Alms for the poor?”

The two men seemed at a loss, but the Minister was the first to recover. He shooed the boy away, saying they had nothing to give him. Harry hung his head sadly and walked away, before promising himself that he would nick everything of value they had on them.

Activating his special skills, Harry boarded the train along with the rest of the crowd, eyes never leaving the two men. Then he slowly began inching closer to them, stopping when he was right behind. Each of his hands slid into a pocket, and he carefully extracted their wallets. The Minister’s wallet was heavy, and Harry marvelled at the weight. The other one seemed to be a purse made of leather, with a bronze clasp and a picture of the owner smiling toothily.

Harry’s deft fingers brushed against the Minister’s side, tangling around the silver pocket-watch and ever so gently tugging it out. He took the man’s cufflinks for good measure. But he had nothing on the Peacock. Then the man changed postures, and Harry caught a glimpse of gold in his inner pockets.

Warily, he slipped the golden object out and weaved his way through the crowd. Getting off at the next stop, he rushed to hide behind another set of bins, emptying the contents of the wallets onto the floor.

Coins, nothing like he had ever seen before, fell out: fat golden ones, sleek silver ones and tiny bronze ones. Harry examined one and realised in despair that no shop would ever accept it. They weren’t standard currency. And should he, a ragamuffin, be found with gold coins, he would be handed over straight to the police. Panicking, Harry put them all inside his undergarment pockets, his shoes- anywhere that would not be easily noticed. Then he proceeded to examine the pocket-watch. It had five hands, two showing the time and the other three moving erratically.

The golden object that he had nicked out of the Peacock’s pockets was rather light, a long wooden stick with elaborate twirls and golden etching on its handle.

As far as Harry was concerned, both were useless, and no pawn-shop would be willing to take them. He groaned and stuffed both into his underpants, and headed to find better luck.

.........................................

**Rozario’s Recipes, Vertick Alley, London**

Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic, broke out in cold sweat. He had let himself be dragged by Gilderoy Lockhart to a fancy restaurant for lunch. The food was very good, and he enjoyed their selection of white wine as well. No, the reason for the Minister’s unease was the fact that he had been robbed.

Judging by Lockhart’s expression, he had been robbed as well.

“Blimey, I seem to have lost my purse...” He said, searching his pockets. “And my wand.” He was distraught. Signor Rozario threw them both dirty looks, and Fudge ended up writing them a cheque.

They wondered when they had been robbed. Fudge had been to the Muggle Prime Minister’s office, along with Lockhart and Shacklebolt, to inform the man of a few wanted Death Eaters. A few of them had been spotted around the countryside, and Fudge wanted them all in Azkaban. He had then dismissed Shacklebolt to try on the novelty of taking the Tube, and Lockhart had followed. When he left the Prime Minister’s office, he was sure he had his wallet and watch, so it was in the Muggle world that he had been robbed.

Fudge rubbed his temples in frustration and dispatched an owl to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Wizarding objects were dangerous in Muggle hands.

............................................

**Shaftesbury Avenue, London**

Harry wandered slowly, munching on a sandwich he had grabbed from a commuter. As he ran from the woman, he had come close to getting hit by a car, but his teleportation seemed to activate again, taking him away.

“Watch where you’re going!” A man snarled as Harry bumped onto him. The boy quickly apologised before darting away, another wallet in his hands. He pocketed the money before looking around for his next target. He decided on a tall and impeccably dressed man strolling down the footpath.

No sooner than his hand slipped into the next man’s pockets, Harry found himself hanging by the scruff of his collar.

“Hello.” The man said in a smooth voice. “Thieving, are we?”

Harry stared up, heart pounding. He had heard that voice before.

Ever since he was a child, wrapped up in a threadbare blanket and shivering inside his cupboard, that voice had soothed him, whispering comforts inside his head and promising him that he would never be alone. In his dreams, it spoke, and during terrible nightmares, a green flash would recur and the Voice would manifest as a handsome, black-haired man with warm brown eyes. He fancied the man to be his father, and the rich timbre of the voice could drive all his nightmares away, keeping Harry company whenever he was feeling particularly hungry or afraid.

“Dad?” Harry asked hesitantly, looking up at the familiar face.

Lord Voldemort choked. “What?”

Why, of all names, had the waif called him ‘Dad’? He was the last person in Britain who could be considered parent material.

Harry smiled from under the mop of hair. “You’re my father, aren’t you? I knew you weren’t dead!” He said eagerly.

“No.” The Dark Lord replied, snatching the wallet from the boy’s hands. “I’m positive I’ve never sired a child. Now away with you.”

Seeing that the Dark Lord was turning to leave, Harry wrapped his arms around the man’s legs. “But I remember you! You told me to call you Volo.”

Now the Dark Lord was beginning to think something unpleasant was at play. Volo was not a common Muggle name, and there was no reason for the urchin to pick it up. Curious, Voldemort looked closely at the boy, who looked more like a bloody yak with all his hair. He brushed aside the hair.

On first sight, he realised it was the child he had been looking for, the Mudblood from Number Four.

Then he noticed it, the scar that had been hitherto covered by a messy fringe.

Harry Bloody Potter.

The dark magic oozing out of the signature lightning-bolt scar told him as much. Lord Voldemort stared at the boy with mixed feelings. He wanted to kill the little rascal who had destroyed his previous body. On the other hand, the boy was his Horcrux. Using Legilimency on the boy, he realised what the boy said was true. The piece of his soul inside Potter was fiercely protective of its container, like all Horcruxes. And the soul-piece had promised a lot of unnecessary and unwanted things to the boy, like protection, companionship and care.

Which Dark Lords most certainly did not do.

In the end, he settled for a very neutral reply. “You’re the Dursley’s nephew.”

Harry paled. “Don’t take me there, please. I’m sorry, I’ll go away, just please don’t send me to the Dursleys.” He began pleading. He wasn’t sure he’d live to see another day once Uncle Vernon got his hands on him.

But the Dark Lord pulled him into a shadowy niche, and apparated to Number Five, Privet Drive.

..............................................

**Number Five, Privet Drive, Surrey**

“No.” Harry whimpered when he recognised the surroundings. The man had pulled him through a very constricting tube, and they had magically landed in Privet Drive. He was then pulled into the house, and deposited on the sofa.

The Dark Lord frowned. Potter was clearly distraught.

“I’m not taking you to the Dursleys.” He said firmly. Once that was established, the boy relaxed visibly. “Now, I need to ask why you are so against returning to your family.”

Harry swallowed. But he really didn’t have to answer, because Nagini slithered up the sofa, coiling comfortably beside him. He inched closer to her for protection.

“Yes?” The Dark Lord was persistent.

“I... might have sold Dudley off to her in exchange for my safety.” Harry replied quietly. “Are you going to hand me over to the police?”

Lord Voldemort smirked. Potter was different. He had imagined some noble, self-sacrificing Gryffindor, spoilt rotten for being the Boy-Who-Lived, and living right under Dumbledore’s thumb.

What in Merlin’s name was James Potter doing, abandoning the child in the hands of those blasted Muggles? What was _Dumbledore_ doing? Surely the old man would have made sure his precious vanguard was cared for?

“Harry,” He began carefully. “I’m not going to hand you over to anyone. Now, tell me why you assumed I was your father.”

Harry coloured lightly. Could he tell the man of the voice in his head? No. That would be a sure ticket to the asylum. And Volo had never said, or implied he was Harry’s father. It was Harry all along, his stupid little brain cooking up fantasies to make his affection-deprived life bearable.

The sadness was palpable, and the horcrux inside Harry’s scar began responding.

_‘Shh, little one. Why do you cry?’_

Harry was startled. _‘Volo,’_ he paused, then began hesitantly, _‘Who are you?’_

The Voice chuckled. _‘I will be whatever you want me to be. I am your protector, as you are mine. I am your guardian, as you are mine.’_

A lump made itself known in Harry’s throat. _‘Are you my Dad?’_

There was a long pause. _‘If you want me to be, little Horcrux.’_

Unbeknownst to Harry, this last utterance was not the soul-piece, but the actual Voldemort sitting across him. The Dark Lord had been listening in on the boy’s thoughts, and decided that a Parselmouth (he finally figured it out when the horcrux was revealed) boy of decent manners, mature and tolerable presence was the best bet he could have on raising an heir. Not that he particularly needed one, being immortal and all, but raising the prophesied child and to gain his trust would be a most satisfactory victory for the Dark Lord. And when he finally found a way to extract the horcrux, he could kill the brat and fulfil the prophecy.

“I will take you as my son and Heir.”

Harry looked wondrously at the man on the armchair. “You’re Volo, aren’t you?” He asked cautiously.

The Dark Lord sighed. He would need to get rid of that name. “I’m Lord Voldemort. Volo is a part of me.”

At this, Harry openly gaped. Lord Voldemort, as in _Lord Voldemort, the Dark Lord?!?_ The undeniably powerful and awesome protagonist of Milord’s stories?

The man smirked at the adoration in the boy’s eyes. Strike one.

“Do you accept?” He asked. The boy was confused for a moment, before nodding eagerly.

That was strike two. Really, what was James Potter doing?

“Good, I was looking for you anyway. Your uncle, his sister and your cousin died in a gas-explosion yesterday.” Harry was bewildered. Hadn’t Dudley- Then realisation dawned on him, aided with a cue from Lord Voldemort’s eyebrows. It was a cover-story! “You and your aunt were saved because you were paying us a visit to give us some raspberry jam that she had made. And since your Aunt is so heartbroken, the Lestranges kindly offered to take care of you while she recovers.”

By this point, Harry was beaming.

He had a new father, the Dursleys were mostly dead, he had a new home, and he was going to stay with the Lestranges, who were the nicest people in the world?

“T- Thank you, _Father.”_ Harry whispered reverently, the word suddenly sounding foreign and yet sweet on his tongue.

Now Voldemort was beaming as well. Strike three! Take that, Albus Dumbledore!

~***~

* * *

 


	8. The Nicest (?) People in the World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New homes, new family, new lessons.  
> Or  
> In which Harry is an affection-starved child, and the key to the Lestranges' hearts is-

**Number Five, Privet Drive, Surrey**

Much to Harry’s delight, his new father was also living in the Lestrange household. When asked why, the Dark Lord had reluctantly admitted he did not have a habitable home, but was in the process of fixing up a headquarters for his nefarious schemes. He had also decided that Harry’s magical education was to begin soon.

He summoned the three Lestranges and told them Harry Potter was going to be living with them. The three showed various levels of protest, Bellatrix especially, but the Dark Lord dared her to defy him. She sputtered, but quickly fell back in line. Their reactions were reversed when the boy reluctantly stepped out of the shadows.

All three Death Eaters held a soft spot for the neighbouring boy, whose only negative had been his Muggle blood. So when he was proved to be a wizard, even the title of Boy-Who-Defeated-Their-Beloved-Lord lost significance, and they welcomed him with open arms. Then the Dark Lord informed his faithful of the boy’s new title as his heir, and issued a thinly-veiled warning against letting the boy come to harm.

Rabastan was overjoyed to see Harry again. The two headed to the kitchen and began tinkering, leaving the Dark Lord in peace to attend to his own matters.

Rodolphus had brought a smooth slab of rock, from the heart of an active volcano in Hawaii. They had to pay a pretty penny for it, but it was the finest stone available for carving runes. A set of twelve quartz crystals were also purchased, to serve as wardstones, along with an ancient stone arch they had illegally dug up from the Mayan excavation sites.

Once these items had been assembled inside Lord Voldemort’s chambers (newly furnished with a bed, dresser and chairs), he began to carve runes. The wardstones were completed first, three largest crystals taken to the basement to be buried, and the rest hidden in every nook and cranny of the house. Two stones were hidden inside trees, and one was powdered and scattered across the yard. Protection assembled, the Dark Lord began setting up the stone arch and its associated relics on the first-floor landing. It was an ancient artefact used to make private travel connections that would be impossible to trace. The gigantic stone slab would be carved into a runic map to coordinate the destination of the portal, anywhere in the world.

It was more troublesome than Apparation and the other modern methods of travel; but for a Most-Wanted criminal organisation, it was their safest bet.

Once the work on the Dark Headquarters was complete the Mayan Teleportation Arch would be taken there. The Surrey safehouse could still make do with the old door-door temporary portals.

The Dark Lord summoned his new ward into the carving room, determined to teach him a thing or two about runes.

“Most wizards underestimate the power of runes, Harry. The use of wands has taken away the ancient practices of runes, rituals, artefacts and wandless magic. All infinitely more powerful than the magic we do today. Powerful, yes, but easy to make mistakes with. External factors like location, time, day and weather can easily tamper with the effectiveness of rituals and artefacts. One wrong step could have terrible consequences.”

Harry, who had been listening raptly, suddenly began squirming.

“Yes?” Asked Lord Voldemort.

“If they’re so delicate...” Harry began hesitantly. “Shouldn’t you be focusing on that instead of lecturing?”

Voldemort sputtered.

“Do you doubt my prowess, Harry? I am a very capable runesmaster.” He chided, carving a string of symbols onto the side of the slab. He completed the set with some cutesy figures that Harry swore were childish doodles.

Harry laughed.

Incensed, Lord Voldemort did not say anything more and continued carving. The runes used in different civilisations were different, and often incompatible. Of course, infantile seven-year-olds couldn’t understand the beauty of it.

But he was pleased to note his ward watching attentively while he carved the runes and charged them. Finally, the portal was set up, and the Dark Lord got up, wiping perspiration off his brows.

“We need one last ritual to activate the portal; for that, we arrange bicorn teeth, the shankbone of a Cerberus and dried, powdered belladonna leaves in a triangular runic diagram, with the arch at the centre. Note that the Bicorn-Shankbone-Belladonna is a triad of European origin.” Harry nodded, although he didn’t understand much. “The belladonna is poison, which stands for death, the shankbone, which is usually freshly harvested from a live Cerberus, stands for life and form, and the bicorn teeth, used by the seers of old in predicting the probable paths an event could take, stands for fate. Other triads can be used as well in this ritual, as long as the trinity of Life, Death and Fate holds.”

Harry understood the latter part, and he watched as the Dark Lord pour a basin of goat-blood onto the runic triangle, lighting it up and chanting in unintelligible whispers.

Magic accumulated in the room, vibrating the air and raising their hairs, before flooding into the portal. The arch glowed as it came to life.

Satisfied, the Dark Lord stepped back, turning to Harry. “Now, son. What have we learnt today?”

Harry quickly thought it over. “Runes are old magic, and more powerful.” When he received a nod, he continued. “There are triads to represent Life, Death and Fate.”

“Good. Olde Magick is now banned by the International Confederation of Warlocks, for its volatile nature and need for sacrifices. The only Olde Magick derivative not banned is Potion-making; mainly because they haven’t found any substitutes. Most importantly, rituals and wandless casting require skill and innate talent.” Lord Voldemort puffed his chest ever so slightly.

......................................

“He’s really a good teacher.” Harry remarked to Bellatrix.

The witch hummed in agreement; it was indeed her Lord who had taught half of the spells in her arsenal. “Did he teach you the Cruciatus?” She asked eagerly.

“The what?”

“The Cruciatus Curse. It’s my favourite spell. When we steal a wand, I’ll teach you.”

Harry bowed his head nervously. “Actually, I’ve got one of those things.”

The day he had tried to rob the Dark Lord and was brought back to Privet Drive, the man had promptly burnt away his ragged clothes and replaced them with resized robes. That was when the weird coins he had stolen tumbled out of his underpants, along with the watch and the wand.

“Where did you get those?” The Dark Lord had asked sharply, while Harry fidgeted. The man read out the names engraved on the watch and the wand. He had then rubbed his head in exasperation; for his new ward had stolen from the Minister of Magic. And a certain Gilderoy Lockhart, who, judging by his wand, was quite wealthy and held a respectable position in the Wizarding world.

The Dark Lord then promptly dismantled the holster and pulled out a sleek wand, handing it to Harry with a warning. “Don’t parade stolen goods around.”

Back to the present; Bellatrix gaped when Harry told her of his exploits with a cheeky smile.

“That’s brilliant! I’ll teach you right away!” The witch whipped out her own wand, pointing it at a grasshopper she had summoned. “Repeat after me. _Crucio.”_ The grasshopper went stiff, trembling in pain.

“Crucio.” Harry intoned eagerly.

“Good!” She replied, releasing the insect. “Now with the wand. Just point it and- _Crucio!”_

The witch released the grasshopper again, and Harry mimicked her move. _“Crucio!”_

The grasshopper twitched a few times, but that was it. Bellatrix frowned. “Come on, that was pathetic! If you want the curse to work you should really mean it. Again!”

 _“Crucio!”_ Harry really wanted to learn magic, and he willed every bit of him into the curse. The grasshopper twitched and trembled madly, and Bellatrix cackled in delight. She ruffled Harry’s hair and the boy soaked in all the affection.

“What are you doing?” A cold voice asked from the door. Bellatrix froze.

This had happened far too many times, baffling Bellatrix. She would catch one of the Death Eaters’ brats and teach them her favourite ensemble, including the Cruciatus, the Cutting curse, the Blood-boiling curse, to name a few, and their parents would rush in; and drag the children away from her. They never really offered her an explanation, and when she asked her brother-in-law, he had merely laughed. Hypocrite that he was, Malfoy did the same thing once Draco was born.

“Mrs Lestrange was teaching me magic, Sir.”

The Dark Lord narrowed his eyes at Bellatrix. “Oh, were you, now?” The silky edge to his voice made her hairs stand up. Lord Voldemort pointed his wand at her. “Harry, watch closely. This is a live demonstration of the Cruciatus curse as inflicted on a human. _Crucio.”_ Bellatrix screamed and writhed on the ground for a full five seconds before the Dark Lord ended the curse. “I have been trying to inculcate wandless magic in my heir. Do not attempt to teach him the use of wands until he is of Hogwarts age.”

The two miscreants bowed their heads meekly.

.....................................

That was not to say Bellatrix, now dubbed ‘Aunt Bella’, did not try to impart her knowledge. Although, she preferred the ‘Learn through Play’ method that had recently gained popularity amongst the kindergartens, and often encouraged Harry to touch the cursed artefacts lying about the house.

Often, the Dark Lord, after exhausting days of rebuilding their headquarters, would walk in to find his new son sporting several disfigured heads, or floating in the hallway, glowing eerily and covered in purplish blood. On these days, the Death Eaters would have trouble sitting properly at the dinner table, while Harry would be in bed, heavily dosed on sleeping potions, pain-relievers and counter-curses.

A frequent visitor of the household was Bartemius Crouch Jr.

Nagini attempted to murder him every single time she saw him, and had to be restrained whenever Crouch was around. The man seemed to be taking his acting career seriously, and invited the Dark Lord and his minions to attend his next Shaftesbury performance. To Rabastan’s surprise and indignation, the Dark Lord applauded the youth’s pursuits, and even offered patronage.

“Acting is a noble profession.” He said, delicately sipping a cup of Earl Grey while looking over his morning paper.

Harry seemed exceptionally chipper that morning. “Have you ever acted, Father?”

The Dark Lord smirked. “Indeed I have. The entirety of my schooling was a masterful act to entrap Wizarding society. And you, my new son, must learn the art of keeping façades.”

Harry’s green eyes went wide. “What are fa-sads?”

“Fake faces.” Barty supplied. “The whole lot in Slytherin _specialise_ in that field. Honestly, I don’t know why they demean actors.”

Thus, Harry’s next lesson was to pretend one way and be the opposite, under the expert tutelage of Barty. (‘Let’s see how our incumbent Ravenclaw performs, then,’ the Dark Lord had challenged.) Bellatrix was supervising.

Now, it is always unfortunate under the supervision of Bellatrix Lestrange; for the underlings, if not the victims.

“Go stab that unsuspecting Muggle over there.” The taskmaster cackled, handing Harry a gleaming dagger. Harry was bewildered, so she brusquely shoved him in that direction.

Harry looked pleadingly at Barty, who shrugged. “But he’ll die!”

“Good. One less Muggle using up the air.”

“But- I’ll go to prison!” Exclaimed the aghast boy.

“That’s the point, love. You need to look innocent enough to fool the law enforcement.”

Harry nodded, terrified. He prayed to whatever deity was above him that these nutcases wouldn’t land him in jail. Then he gathered his wits, sauntered coolly to the man reading the Magnolia Crescent map, and chirped a greeting.

The man looked distinctly uncomfortable, and Harry swore he saw recognition flash in those eyes. He offered to help him navigate through the street, positioning himself carefully behind the man’s back. When the latter turned to look at the map, Harry raised his dagger and stabbed his back.

  1. Unfortunately, his arms were not strong enough and he did not have enough experience in stabbing people for the dagger to sink deep.
  2. Unfortunately, the man, who was a wizard, raised his wand as he fell.
  3. Unfortunately, he also recognised the very much Wanted Death Eaters, as they jumped out of their hiding bush to cheer for their ward.
  4. Unfortunately, the Death Eaters also recognised their victim.



Barty swore. “Oh, Circe’s bloody bloomers, it’s Dung Fletcher from the Order.”

“We should get rid of him.” All three misfits agreed, Bellatrix seized Harry’s hand, and demonstrated how to properly stab, cut and slit a man’s neck. Mundungus Fletcher bled to death, while Barty sent Harry to fetch the Dark Lord.

“Fools! Now the Order will investigate!” His Magnificence snarled.

“He did it.” The two Death Eaters pointed at the seven year-old, and received a couple of Cruciatus Curses in return.

The Dark Lord pondered deeply. “If this thief was here, the Order must be watching. After all, they wouldn’t leave their precious Boy-Who-Lived so unguarded, would they? Barty, search for anyone who may have ties to the Order. We should conceal this as an ordinary murder. A robbery, perhaps?”

Mundungus Fletcher’s body was thrown into a ditch after removing anything of value; his wand snapped in a pretend-scuffle.  It was then suspected that the Order might have someone watching Harry from afar; if not from Privet Drive, then the neighbouring streets.

It was necessary for Harry to remain Harry Potter, and not Voldemort Jr. And therefore, a new portal was constructed from the staircase cupboard of Number Four, Privet Drive, to Harry’s bedroom in the Lestrange household.

..............................................

Death is always followed by the Law Enforcement.

This was an unwritten postulate among those on the wrong side of the law, as his new father told Harry. Muggle police swarmed the locale and wrote it off as a robbery gone wrong. Father, son and evil minions smirked smugly.

Then one day, the doorbell rang.

It was a peaceful morning, Bellatrix working on her bacon and eggs while Harry practised setting the table magically. Lord Voldemort was reading the paper and sipping his herbal tea, while Barty fed Nagini and Percival (the owl still exists) strips of bacon. The Lestrange brothers were away on another mission.

Barty peered through the door, reeled back and waved frantically. “Aurors!”

The Dark Lord stood up. “Initiate Operation Demiguise!”

The entire household jumped to their feet and repositioned themselves as per the drill. Lord Voldemort waved his wand, casting disguises over all of them, before returning to his paper.

..............................................

“Reckon it’s your cousin?” The elderly man in a grey trench-coat asked, pressing the electronic ringer on the door.

The younger one, dressed smartly in a maroon blazer and shaggy hair tied back in a ponytail, shrugged. “Dunno. The thief was found dead here, and there happens to be a family called the Lestranges nearby. It can’t just be coincidence, can it?”

The older man looked sceptic. “Black, we’ve heard nothing of them for _years._ And do you honestly think that those lunatics are domesticated enough to live alongside Muggles? Dumbledore put you up to this, didn’t he?”

“What if he did? He’s always-”

The conversation paused as they heard a crash inside. Both men gripped the wands hidden inside their pockets. It certainly had been a while since they rang the bell, and Black readied himself to blast the door open, while Murray cast anti-Apparation and anti-Portkey wards.

The door opened to reveal a small boy with a parrot on his shoulder.

“Bonjour. Puis-je vous aider?” He asked shyly. The parrot hissed.

The two men stared. “Erm...” Black began, mustering all the French lessons of his Black-family childhood. “Qui es-tu?”

“Nous sommes les Stranges. Et vous?”

There was another pause that let the men think. Les Strange- a homophone.

“Je suis Black. Uh...” Black searched for words. “Parlez vous anglais?”

“Non désolé. S’il vous plait, attendez ici.” He disappeared behind the partly open door. “Oncle Stan, il y a un autre gars anglais!”

A moment later, a ridiculously dressed man in eighteenth-century attire stepped out. “Bonjour, monsieur.” He looked expectantly at the two men, who realised that they needed a reason to be there. Murray was the first to gather his wits.

“We’re part of a household survey, to analyse the general living conditions in different economic levels.” He said, channelling everything he had learnt for his Muggle Studies OWLS.

The ridiculously dressed man blinked. “Is that even a thing? Well, anyway, come on in.”

........................................

Two men fled the Lestrange residence.

“Lestrange, my arse! The only thing they could ever be are Muggle-Lovegoods.” Black hissed at Murray, who was vomiting the sun-dried eyeballs and leech-juice they had unwittingly consumed.

Back at Number Five, three internationally wanted criminals cheered and toasted to their new addition.

“Attaboy, Harry!” Barty exclaimed, thumping Harry on the back. Lord Voldemort beamed.

~***~

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Barty is a Ravenclaw here. And a couple of the French sentences were googled.
> 
> Also, please check out my latest Potterverse fanfiction.  
> It's called 'Draco Dormiens Nunquam Titillandus', and it's about the Founders. I'm really really pleased with the way that turned out, and I thought it was an alternative to how wizarding history perceives Slytherin. It's an idea that had been bubbling in my mind for long before Bizarre Happenings, and was supposed to be a multi-chapter thing, but it somehow ended up being a One-shot.


	9. Voldemort Junior

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aww, Daddy cares.

**Riddle House, Little Hangleton**

Harry frowned while he watched Voldemort work. Granted, the spellcraft was amazing, but he was getting the distinct feeling that his new father was not a person with high moral standing. In the past month, they had killed three people, one for a ritual and the other two by Harry himself. When the boy eagerly showed the bloody dagger to his father, the wizard had not been pleased.

The boy wondered if it was because killing was unethical, but his father seemed to be more displeased by the ill-concealed evidence rather than the murder itself. It was then that Harry realised, that his new family was actually a group of criminals on the run.

No matter. They were the only people who had ever shown him love and acceptance, and so, Harry would accept them as they were, and support them in their endeavours.

..........

“Where’s my favourite nephy-poo?” Bellatrix cackled, setting down the load of illegal artefacts she had been levitating. Lord Voldemort had finished rebuilding his headquarters, and the family was shifting their possessions to the manor. Harry and the Dark Lord went first, to avoid suspicion, and it was agreed that the Lestranges would follow within the week.

“Did you miss me, Aunt Bella?” Harry grinned cheekily. “Come, there’s loads to see. I’m sure you’ll love the dungeons!”

Bellatrix let the boy drag her to the Riddle House’s newly installed dungeons. She loudly reminisced about the dungeons of Hogwarts Castle, where the Slytherin dormitories were located.

“Father’s issued us a challenge. Whoever can come up with the most creative use of this space will get to have their chambers here.”

Barty, who had come to help with the shifting, as any loyal minion should, shuddered visibly. “Urgh, bad memories.”

“Azkaban?” Bellatrix asked.

“My father locked me in the dungeons after he got me out.”

Harry patted Barty’s shoulders sympathetically.

..............................................

In the end, it was Rabastan Lestrange, who won the claim to the Riddle House dungeons. Work began promptly to convert it into a mini-Azkaban, complete with runaway Dementors and a river of blood.

Harry winced.

“Don’t worry, it’s just for show.” Rabastan winked, hanging his torture-instruments on the wall. Harry was tasked with helping him catalogue them. The boy had no doubts that he would be quizzed after dinner and that he was expected to learn their names, uses and general history. 

There was a swift movement behind him, and Harry slammed the nearest instrument into what he assumed would be his attacker’s heart. The Inferius fell and began to writhe.

Lord Voldemort had set up quite a number of them around the house, under instructions to attack everything that was alive. He insisted that it would serve as target-practice for his ward and keep the Death Eaters on their feet.

“Constant vigilance!” Barty had shouted quite enthusiastically, before fleeing from the spells hurled at him.

Peering at the twisted silver-stake in his hand, Harry asked, “Uncle Stan, is Father a bad person?”

Rabastan turned from his work abruptly. He had not expected such a question. “What makes you think that?”

“Well, you’re all on the run from the magical police, you’re teaching me to kill Muggles, and we _are_ building a torture chamber here. Morally speaking, this is a lot of villainy.”

The youngest Lestrange was speechless. The concept of morality had never occurred to him before. “The Dark Lord is the greatest wizard in the world. I’ll follow him to my last breath.” He said simply.

Ah.

That was not a very useful answer.

......................................

“Father, are you a bad person?”

Lord Voldemort choked on his morning tea.

Bellatrix screeched in outrage. “Master is the epitome of goodness! He is a shining beacon of hope, purging this world of Muggle filth-”

The Dark Lord tuned her out and observed his new son. The boy would not be influenced by pureblood propaganda, being a halfblood himself. Mindless violence didn’t seem to appeal either, which meant the Dark Lord would have to try on a new approach.

After breakfast, he called the boy into his office.

“Harry,” He began tentatively. “There is no good or evil. There is only power, and those too weak to seek it.” Honesty had eluded Lord Voldemort for so long that he kept beating around the bush. “Do you think it was bad to kill the Dursleys?”

Harry hesitated, then shook his head. The relief (and a tiny bit of regret) he’d felt over the Dursleys’ untimely demise had been washed off by the joy of getting a family who actually liked him.

“Do you feel you were treated badly by the Muggles?”

Again, Harry nodded.

“Then is it bad of us to kill Muggles?”

“You’re saying it’s a matter of how you look at it?” Harry asked.

Lord Voldemort sighed. “It’s bad from the Muggles’ perspective, but you are not a Muggle, Harry. You are a wizard.” He paused, gathering himself. It had been a long while since he played the sympathy card. “When I was a child... I grew up in an orphanage. It wasn’t exactly pleasant.”

 _“You_ were abused?!?” Harry asked, stunned.

The Dark Lord winced. ‘Abuse’ was a word no seven year old ought to know. “Bullied, more like. My point is, you have to put the Muggles in their place before they do it to you.”

Harry nodded fervently, eyes shining and moist.

Lord Voldemort smirked in triumph. Better give the boy something to relate with, than have him waste all that empathy on the Muggles.

............................................

“C’mon Harry, put this on.” Rodolphus wrapped a black cloak around the boy, and handed him a silver mask. Green eyes looked up questioningly at him. “It’s a Death Eater cloak. You’re one of us now.”

“What’s a Death Eater, Uncle Rodolphus? Do you eat... urgh, corpses?”

Rodolphus paused for a moment. He’d never needed to explain to anyone what his profession of choice was. “We’re the Dark Lord’s most faithful servants.” Then as an afterthought, Rodolphus realised Harry had neither made the vow in front of the Dark Lord nor been marked by Him. “Will you do anything for the Dark Lord, Harry?”

The boy nodded eagerly.

“Then you are one of us.” With not a moment’s hesitation, Rodolphus slid the mask onto Harry’s face, and held his hand firmly. “Now, we’re going to be Apparating and it’ll be quite discomfiting, but _do not let go.”_

And with that crack of apparation, the two vanished.

They landed in the Port of Liverpool, where Rodolphus curled his lips in distaste at the Muggles scurrying around. Barty, who had been waiting for them in the apparition zone, elbowed him in the ribs for the hypocrisy.

Dumbledore and his chickens were hiding one of their Order safehouses there; and Barty wondered how the old goat had been able to procure a Muggle container. Recently, Barty had taken to disguising himself as Russian warlocks and frequenting the Leaky. It was purely by chance that he overheard Podmore and Diggle drink themselves silly. The Fidelius wouldn’t let them reveal the location, but there were more than enough hints; (Full of Muggles, darned ships and their horns, why couldn’t Dumbledore just sell that old tin can...)

It took Barty little time to figure out it was a harbour, and even less to throw a tracking spell on Podmore.

“What’s the plan?” Rodolphus asked Barty. The latter shrugged. “We search in the containers. The tracker died when it crossed the Fidelius. I can pinpoint its last location, and then we know where the wards begin.” Rodolphus nodded and watched as Barty conjured a silver butterfly, most likely a spell of his own creation. When it began to flutter away, Rodolphus picked Harry up and set chase. The spell went past a row of Italian containers and went out.

Barty poked the area with his wand smugly and watched the shimmering of the air. “It’s here alright.” There were nine containers inside the wards, and Barty pulled Rodolphus into the niche between two.

“You sure they’ll come?”

“Oh, yes. It’s their pub night.” Barty had been staking the place out for half a month.

Soon enough, Sturgis Podmore and Dedalus Diggle staggered into the wards. Rodolphus pushed Harry towards them, hastily removing the mask, with a quick instruction to eavesdrop.

Harry, who had nearly perfected the art of being invisible among people, walked to the two men and shrank into the background. Even drunk, the Order members had enough sense to keep the password chit to themselves. The boy wished they’d speak it out loud, but he had deft and nimble fingers that brushed Podmore like a breeze and stole the chit out of his pockets. He waited until the men were inside to flash a thumbs-up at Barty and sneak back to them.

He handed out the chit.

“Well, Merlin be damned.” Rodolphus stared at the loopy script that could only belong to Dumbledore. “You did it.”

Harry grinned triumphantly as Barty ruffled his hair. The two Death Eaters and boy walked up to the wards, to see a tenth container materialise; it was brightly coloured in periwinkle blue with yellow stars. They winced, the whole thing screamed ‘Dumbledore!’ and for a moment, they pitied the Order mongrels they were about to murder.

The end of the Wizarding War and the defeat of the Dark Lord had lulled people into a false sense of security, as if they didn’t see the escaped Death Eaters as a significant threat. Not to mention, they’ve all had to bide their time.

Not anymore.

Barty stepped in through the wards and raised his wand. _“Morsmodre!_ All hail the Dark Lord!”

Harry watched in excitement as a green spell shot into the sky, taking the shape of a snake emerging from a skull. He mouthed the incantation; he knew it was to cast his Father’s insignia. Rodolphus strode through the doors, a well-placed _Reductor_ had made them yield. Barty and Harry followed, the latter donning his mask again and slipping into the shadows.

The magically enlarged container didn’t have many Order members in it; the lack of war had made them return to their homes and partake in merriment. Aside from Diggle and Podmore, there was a young witch, whom Rodolphus promptly dispatched to announce themselves.

Half frozen at the sight of his dead fiancée and half mad with rage, Diggle howled and launched himself at Rodolphus. Barty decided to engage Podmore.

Neither men had expected the safehouse to be stormed by the Order so early, so when Barty’s Caterwauling charm went off, the Death Eaters decided they had played enough. Rodolphus quickly sent Diggle to his demise; an array of Cutting Hexes and an obscure Decapitating spell passed down in the family to severe House-elf heads.

Barty, however, didn’t have that luck. Let it be said that he was the brainy one among the Death Eaters, one of the youngest to be marked, and hadn’t quite gained as much battle experience yet. Podmore seemed to avoid even the more complex spells of Barty’s repertoire, and Rodolphus was getting annoyed. The Order would come in anytime, and Podmore wasn’t dead yet. He cast the Fiendfyre, pulled out a crushed tin can and activated the portkey, grabbing Barty. Podmore threw himself onto the Death Eater and was whisked away, back to Little Hangleton.

They knocked out Podmore with a stunner and dragged him to Riddle House. Lord Voldemort lounged on his throne while the Death Eaters prostrated themselves.

“Very good. Throw him into the dungeons, I’ll have Rabastan interrogate him.” The Dark Lord said.

The two Death Eaters ambled into the dining hall, feeling victorious, when they met Bellatrix. If looks could kill, they would be dead now.

“Have you seen Harry?” She asked. Rodolphus began to pale. “Where’s ickle-wee-Potty? I swear, Roddy, if he’s dead-”

Cold dread settled into the pits of their stomachs as they realised they’d left Harry inside the safehouse. In the heat of battle, Rodolphus had forgotten they’d brought the Dark Lord’s heir in with them.

Barty was the first to rush out of the house, followed by Bellatrix and Rodolphus. They apparated back to Liverpool, and ran to the place where the Dark Mark hung above the containers. The Fidelius had been dismantled, Order members and Aurors were attempting to put out the fire raging inside the wards. A ministry obliviate-team was rounding up the Muggles.

Bellatrix charged into the container before anyone could stop her, and the two Death Eaters disillusioned themselves before following.

“Madam! Do not go in-” an Auror attempted to stop her, but he was blasted out of the way. Bellatrix could be an angry harpy when she wanted, and the looks she sent the disillusioned duo promised them much pain when they made it back.

Barty cast a shield of his making around them, it was dark magic and could withstand Fiendfyre for a little longer than other spells. “We have five minutes, tops.” He told them, as they split up and began to search. Barty frantically went through nook and cranny, eyes darting about like a madman. Finally, he found Harry, perched on top of a steel cabinet. The boy was barely conscious, and badly burnt, with a magical bubble around him that fended off the flames. Barty broke the shield and pulled the boy into his back, and sent a signal to the other two. He then apparated back to Little Hangleton, feeling drained. Moments later, the Lestrange couple popped in, looking ragged and bloodied.

“Moody saw us.” Rodolphus huffed. They trudged back to the house, too tired to notice the aura of certain doom.

....................................

Lord Voldemort seethed.

“Tell me, why did two adult Death Eaters need a child to carry out something as simple as a raid on an abandoned safehouse? An unarmed seven year-old, for Merlin’s sake!”

“Milord, the place was under Fidelius-”

 _“Crucio.”_ Lord Voldemort watched the two twitch and jerk about in agony. He was not satisfied. Harry had severe burns and acute smoke-inhalation, added to the fact that the boy had gotten hit by a good number of stray spells while the Death Eaters duelled with Podmore and Diggle.

Riddle House didn’t have a medical wing, and the Dark Lord did not have a Mediwizard for immediate assistance. He was tempted to take Harry to St Mungo, but there was no assurance the disguises would hold. So at present, Harry’s care was limited to what little Healing Lord Voldemort and Barty knew, which wasn’t much. Rabastan was sent out to buy a stash of Dittany, as well as Burn Paste, while he set a diagnostic spell to assess the magical-damage.

Magical exhaustion was the first thing that popped up, which was obvious, since the boy’s magical core had spent too much on keeping up that proto-shield against the Fiendfyre.

Barty and Rodolphus too, seemed on the verge of collapsing, so after three rounds of the Cruciatus, Lord Voldemort sent them to bed.

In the end, the Dark Lord was stuck with three bedridden minions and one bedridden heir. He grumbled angrily as he pored over the tomes in the library for healing texts. He wasn’t supposed to be running a hospital; this seriously hindered his evil master-plans.

~***~

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own the characters, I only own the changes in the plot. All characters belong to the illustrious and beloved J K Rowling, without whom, we would not have ever delved into the world of Harry Potter.
> 
> I also want to thank my readers who respond and post comments (which I live for, by the way). I might not be able to reply to some (take for example 'LOL', because what am I supposed to reply?) but each one of them lifts my spirits so very much. Thank you!


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